


mars smells like the october we burned monsters

by alright_alright



Category: South Park
Genre: Absent Parents, Abusive Parents, Angst and Humor, Awkwardness, Banter, Becoming Friends Again, Bittersweet, Cemetery, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Confessions, Conversations, Delusions, Drunken Confessions, False Memories, Fights, Gambling, Ghosts, High School, I'm so sorry, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of Classical Music, Mental Health Issues, Nostalgia, Oblivious, Panic Attacks, Paranormal, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Poker, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Railroads, Sappy, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Swearing, Trains, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Winter, alcohol at some point, at points, can be funny, casino talk, craig's sappy, ghosts are not a big deal at this point, high school seniors, it's a super slow burn, later on tho, like a soy candle, like really slow burn, lots of cool facts about insects and the like, mentions of abuse, nerd craig, snarky tweek, there is so much pining, there is way too much pining guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 124,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alright_alright/pseuds/alright_alright
Summary: Craig's really into insects, science fiction and his childhood best friend who talks to ghosts. Tweek speaks in codes, believes aliens exist and has a lot of dead friends.





	1. Friday Night

Craig never  _ wanted  _ to hurt anyone but that’s the story of his life, isn’t it? His stupid voice gets him in a lot of shit, even when he doesn’t really mean half the stuff he spews. If he could stop his mouth from breathing nonsense, maybe he wouldn’t be in so much trouble. 

Avoiding his parents is how he’s ended up walking in the cemetery. His mom, really, is the one he needs to get away from. His dad doesn’t give a shit. He’d probably be happy that Craig got in a fight, proof that he wasn’t just some wuss. Craig doesn't feel like getting any more concussions, though, just in case his dad's been out with 'the guys'. Or his mom feels ready to call him a 'dumb little shit'. So he slipped in through his bedroom window before either of them got home from work, grabbed his bus pass and this poorly drawn map from the third grade. He’s never been into this kind of stuff before. Y’know,  _ death _ . It’s a little much for him to process. He’s spent most of his life so far avoiding endings. Now, it’s all he can think about and because of what? The recurrence of a childhood friend? Tweek’s freakout that felt a little too nostalgic on Thursday? 

He could text an apology to Kyle, but he also could shove tacks under his fingernails. The bastard had it coming. _ This is why you have so few friends.  _ Whatever. Friends don’t do much, anyway, do they? Token was supposed to meet him here an hour ago and that asshole isn’t anywhere to be found. Friends used to mean something special, years ago, but Craig can’t remember those times too clearly. He did feel whole, he knows that much. It was so long ago, he’s nearly sure it was something he watched on television that he’s been pretending is his. 

Playing in the cemetery with his favorite paranoid friend, though, that  _ must _ have been real. You don’t get that kind of anxiety on TV, unless it’s on the nightly news. Craig doesn’t watch the news anymore. He touches a gravestone and walks by. He pulls out the map from third grade and it's of all the places they invented. Space games. Aliens. 

Over by the Ralph’s headstone was Mars. 

Craig frowns and tightens his collar up against the cold. He checks his phone for a message from Token, but there’s nothing even saying he’s gonna be late.  _ Asshole. _ Craig taps the stone and tries to remember a past he’s not even sure happened, because that will pass some time. Always does.

Tweek drew _this_  spot, right there, the angel statue. It’s the only decent looking thing on the page and it was done by a ten year old, eight years ago. Craig wonders if he still draws. He hadn’t seen him since the start of middle school until basically this last year. Tweek was MIA for so long that by the time he came back to school, Craig was sucked into the lifestyle of the average All-American asshole, a.k.a. Clyde, to notice his old friend right away. 

Craig notices him now. It’s kind of all he does lately. Token’s called him pathetic more than once. But really, fuck that because what does _Token_ know anyway? He’s always breaking promises and isn’t that more pathetic? 

Probably not, the wind whistles and Craig instinctively sticks his middle finger out in his coat pocket. 

Tweek looks vacant, though, that's what Craig's noticed most about him this year. He's drained and has an aura that says he’s seen too much shit to care about yours. He stopped shaking and barely says a word. He has spent most of senior year in the library, overcrowded with books on the Cold War, psychology and the paranormal. He writes a lot about death. Not that Craig would really know; it’s not like Tweek’s  _ intentionally _ shared anything he’s written with Craig. Besides, the only thing Craig’s said to him in the last year was to ask why he was reading all those old shitty books when he could be outside. 

Maybe Craig _is_ a wuss. Maybe his dad's right. Tweek didn’t really give him the time of day, though. He just muttered something about how knowledge leads to freedom. He didn’t want to feel like a caged canary anymore, he said.

Craig misses his friend. He can’t believe he’s wasted so much of his time hanging out with Clyde. Clyde, whose most interesting attribute is the fact that potatoes are his favorite plant. Clyde, who barks, cat calls and hollers at all of the girls obtrusively. Clyde, ever popular for reasons unbeknownst to Craig. 

Senior year is nearly over and they’re almost graduated. It’s February. It’s very cold in the cemetery. Craig wants to make contact with a ghost, any ghost will do. Token promised he’d come. Craig pulls out his phone and starts a new message. 

_ You’re late.  _ He settles on. He stares at the blue glow of the screen, waiting for a response. It feels odd. The night’s closing in, starting to feel suffocating. Sounds like October. Someone’s burning a campfire, far away. It’s a faint and comforting smell. The smoke reminds him of the time he and Tweek started that fire in the woods, except it was spring and Tweek was trying to burn away the monsters. 

Oh. That was probably a sign. 

Craig sees a figure in the distance and thinks  _ about damn time _ . 

“You’re so fucking late. I told you to come two hours ago.” Craig says, walking towards the person. It’s very dark now and Craig wishes he had more than his stupid phone light. 

“I’m n-not late,” It’s not Token’s voice. It’s that weird gravelly, always-sounds-sick voice that Tweek’s got now. “Wh-what are  _ you _ doing here?”

“Tweek? Huh, I didn’t realize the cemetery was your property.”

“Who are you m-meeting?”

“Token but I guess fate has a different goal. Hiya, buddy.” Craig grins. 

“You’re keeping my friends up.” Tweek says, a little eerily. He doesn’t appear to be swayed by what Craig thought was undeniable suave on his part. Craig frowns. 

“Sorry?”

“They,” Tweek closes his eyes lightly and Craig feels the urge to quiet his own breathing. “They tell me you’ve been here a while. They can’t sleep.” 

“Are you talking about all the  _ dead _ people?” Craig widens his eyes. “Fuck, Tweek. What do  _ they  _ need sleep for? They’re in coffins, all they do is sleep.” Tweek gives Craig an irritated look and walks past him, gingerly, heading towards the old steeple. Craig follows him, unsure of what to do. This is the most he’s spoken to Tweek in years and he doesn’t feel like ending it yet. “Why are  _ you _ here?”

“That’s not,  _ ngh _ , any of your business.” Craig shrugs, taken aback.

“I was only making conversation,” Craig says. “Prick.” He mutters, pointedly. Tweek shakes his head.

“Don’t. You’re r-really bad at it.”

“Whoa, alright, asshole,” Tweek fumbles with something in his pocket, comes up with a really old lighter, kind of like the one Craig's grandfather had in Korea, and a thin candle. He lights the candle and opens the door. Craig follows him through it. “Seriously, Tweek, what are you doing?”

“Could you, could you please be more annoying? I think it’s fucking d-dandy.” 

“Some call me charming.” Craig says, a little surprised by the swearing and the generally unpleasant words coming from Tweek.

“Who?  _ Kyle _ ?” 

“Hey, he totally earned that.”

“You got,  _ ngh _ , freaky.”

“You saw the fight?” Craig feels somewhat touched by the notion of Tweek knowing something about him.

“Yeah, here,” He hands Craig the candle. “Hold this.” 

“Okay.” Craig takes the candle. Tweek clasps his hands together and points to the old wooden door they just came through.

“And walk out the door. Go by Mars, past all the dead,  _ ngh _ , roses. Don’t come back.”

“What?”

“The candle will,  _ ngh _ , protect you. Just, just, go. You don’t get this shit. Just go.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. Did you just call one of the headstones Mars?”

“Huh?” Tweek looks a little surprised. He shakes his head. “Oh, y-yeah, sorry. I’ve been doing that,” Tweek frowns. “I don’t know why. It says Ralph, n-not Mars. Just head out there. It’s, it’s across from the, the mossy angel. Th-that’s the  _ safe _ way.”

“No way. Things are getting spooky. I wanna stay.” Craig grins. Tweek rubs at his face in an obvious annoyance. 

“Don’t you have a, uh,  _ ngh _ , party to get to? I hear that Clyde’s,” Tweek looks a little upset. “I hear that Clyde throws some massive hangovers.”

“What?” Craig laughs, loudly and obnoxiously. 

“Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing, you’re just,” Craig smiles. “I forgot what you were like, is all.”

“Th-that’s fair. I guess I forgot wh-what a persistent asshole you are. You can’t stay.” 

“Why not?”

“It’s, i-it’s complicated.”

“Well, at least give me ten minu----”

“---no. You are not staying. You have to leave. I don’t want you to, to get hurt.” 

“What do you mean ‘ _ hurt’ _ ? What are you doing, some kind of drug deal?”

“Oh, f-fuck you, man.”

“Yeah? Alright, if it means you’ll talk to me more,” Craig suggests, slightly awkwardly. Tweek draws his eyebrows together, in a contorted fashion. “I don’t get the sense that you’re the ‘ _ love ‘em and leave ‘em’  _ kind.” Craig adds, with a slight cough, because he’s aiming to make this the most uncomfortable moment of his life thus far.

“ _ Wh-what _ !” Tweek screeches and it’s really something nostalgic.

“I’m joking. About the sex,” Craig clarifies, because he’s totally not obsessed with his childhood friend. And comedy, especially shitty and slightly strained, has no relation to the truth. “Not about you talking to me. You really don’t talk to me.”

“I talk.” Tweek mumbles.

“You do not.”

“I s-said something to you a week ago.” Craig raises an eyebrow, disbelievingly. “Oh, it’s not like, n-not like you even tried to have a conversation w-with, with _ me _ ! I’ve been back almost a fucking year, dude! Wh-what is this shit with you now?” 

“I,” Craig begins, pulling up recent memories of Tweek. Most of them are simply Tweek doing something solitary, like reading. He reads a lot and Craig's usually from a distance. Oops, Craig’s a little bit of a stalker. Tweek’s still staring at him, expecting some kind of answer and Craig draws up the only conversation he can remember they’ve had in six years. “Asked you about your books.” Tweek rolls his eyes.

“You said, ‘ _ why the hell do you care about this shit, why aren’t you outside? _ ’ That’s everything, e-everything you,  _ ngh,  _ said t-to me. _ ” _

“What, and your response was better? You kind of ended the conversation when you said you didn’t wanna be in a cage anymore.” Tweek frowns. “At least I initiated something.”

“Wh-what, what do you  _ want _ , okay!? Why do I owe anything to you?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“I haven’t, haven’t talked to you in at least six years! Wh-why, why do you care?”

“I have no idea?” Craig asks, rubbing his neck, attempting to fool himself that he’s unsure of why he cares this much. He could be home in his pajamas. Well, maybe not  _ home _ , but definitely somewhere warmer. He could be  _ asleep _ but instead he’s facing this kid he used to know, standing in a cold church with only a little candle light flickering. It belongs in a ghost world. Or on the Twilight Zone. He could be  _ watching  _ the Twilight Zone instead. 

“Ugh, m-man,  _ what  _ kind of an answer is, i-is  _ that _ ?”

“You weren’t easy to find. Did your parents homeschool you? What happened?” Tweek turns away and scratches at his wrist.

“I don’t wanna, let’s n-not go there, just,” He sighs frustratedly and turns around to shout at Craig. “What do I have to do to make you  _ leave _ ?!”

“Sit with me at lunch on Monday.” Tweek narrows his eyes.

“Th-that’s it? Y-you don’t want money? I’m not c-completely broke. I have a little cash. You, y-you  _ could’ve  _ asked for cash.”

“Christ, Tweek, no. Don’t just offer your cash up, dude. I don’t want your money. I just want your company.” 

“Th-that’s weird, man,” Tweek thinks on this for a minute. “I’m not a,” Tweek gestures his hands wildly. “Uh, a  _ prostitute _ .” Craig laughs and the candle drips on the floor. Tweek jumps back into reality. 

“I’ve never,” Craig says, out of breath from all the laughter. “ _ Thought _ you were a prostitute. Just sit with me on Monday and I’ll go right now.” 

“O-okay,” Tweek mumbles, hesitantly after some internal deliberation. “Fine. Now, will you please  _ leave _ ?”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” 

“Good. Goodbye, Craig.” 

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes,  _ Monday _ , n-not now. G-goodbye.”

“Sheesh, Tweek, I’m leaving.” Craig heads out and slowly walks back through the cemetery. The little candle gives him a lot of comfort and he’s surprised by the feeling. He hears a loud  _ snap _ behind him and jumps. The candle barely flickers, but seems to glow a different shade of yellow now. That’s odd. Craig shakes his head and continues on his walk home. He’s probably just tired.


	2. Monday

“Tweek?” Clyde’s pulling a disgusted face and Craig resists the urge to flip him off. He doesn’t feel like getting all that pestering, definitely bigoted, bullshit from Clyde. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to.” Craig says, simply. 

“But why does it have to be  _ Tweek?  _ He’s fucking certifiable.” Clyde picks at his sandwich before chomping down on it. 

“Clyde, what’s your point? From here, it just sounds like you’re whining.”

“Hmph,” Clyde frowns into his food. “I don’t like him. He lies. He’s not trustworthy.” He grips his sandwich until the bread splits. Craig raises an eyebrow when food falls from it. 

“You barely know him anymore,” Craig pecks at his salad and looks around the cafeteria. “He didn’t steal your glitter stick in third grade.” Craig spots Tweek going through what seems like a nervous pattern of entering and re-entering the cafeteria. 

“Don’t do it. I don’t want to eat with him,” Clyde says, when he follows Craig’s line of sight. Defiantly, with a ‘fuck-you’ attitude, Craig waves Tweek over. “Goddammit, Craig,” Clyde hisses, in obvious frustration. “You really are an ass.” 

“You’re the ass,” Craig says right before Tweek walks up slowly, with his old ruddy bag, holding a thermos and a book. Craig smiles and Tweek narrows his eyes. Craig frowns. “Hey.” He coughs. Smooth, Tucker. Smooth.

“Y-yeah, hi,” Tweek grumbles. His eyes flick to Clyde and he flinches. Clyde glares. Craig feels inclined to swat him but doesn't, lest he scare Tweek away. “Are we, where do you w-want me to sit?”

“Take my seat. I’m out. Math test.” Clyde announces. Craig gives him a look that Tweek doesn’t see, which says  _ what the fuck  _ and Clyde just raises his hands into the air. Clyde gets up and leaves, but not before making a point to tip the chair onto the ground. It hits the floor with a clang while Clyde walks away like nothing’s happened. Tweek jumps, with a yelp, his thermos falling sharply to the germ-infested cafeteria ground. 

“ _ Sh-shit _ !” He screeches. Craig gets up and sets the chair straight across from him. He picks up the thermos and hands it to Tweek, who still looks on the edge but takes the thermos carefully. “Uh, th-thanks, I guess.” Tweek grumbles.

“I wasn’t sure you were gonna come.” Craig says, surprised at his nervous tone. This, somehow seems to calm Tweek a little so he thunks down in the seat opposite from Craig. Craig’s back at his salad as he watches Tweek pull out a protein bar and this little jam jar filled with some kind of green sludge. 

“I d-don’t break promises.” Tweek says lowly. 

“Neat,” Craig says. A few moments pass. It’s clear that Tweek wants very little to do with this situation. He barely acknowledges Craig’s presence and it seems he’s trying very hard to ignore the rest of the cafeteria. He looks out of place. “What are you reading?” Craig asks, because the happy chatter of all the other kids is too much for him when a grainy voice isn’t coming from the guy across from him.

“The ingredients list on this protein bar.” Tweek mutters. Craig rolls his eyes. 

“I mean the book.” Tweek perks up a little at the mention of his text.

“It’s, it’s about Russia a-after World War One.” 

“Cool?” Tweek raises his eyebrows.

“Y-yeah, I’m sure that’s what everyone was thinking.  _ A-atrocities? No food? Cool! _ ” Tweek says, pretty sarcastically. 

“Why are you being so pissy?” 

“I’m not pissy! I, I just d-don’t get what you, wh-what you  _ want _ from me.”

“Company, I guess.” Tweek looks at him like he’s a madman.

“You h-have  _ Clyde _ and Token and, and even Kyle! And all  _ those _ guys!” Tweek points madly at where Stan and those guys are sitting. Kyle tosses a weird look towards them, muttering something to Kenny. Kenny doubles over laughing. The rest of them keep glancing over at Craig and Tweek. Tweek’s oblivious to their stares.  _ Or _ he doesn’t care that much and Craig finds  _ that _ hard to believe, but maybe. Times  _ have _ changed. “Why do you need any more company?!” 

“Because.” Craig croaks a little. Tweek’s too intense.

“Because  _ wh-what,  _ man?!”

“If you weren’t such a fucking bastard all the time, you’d know that I really missed you, okay?” Craig admits, red faced and not really looking over at Tweek much.

“I,” Tweek blinks. “I, I’m a bastard?”

“Yeah,” Craig says. “ _ Mega _ bastard.” Craig adds, for the extra kick.

“S-sorry,” Tweek slumps in his chair and picks at his protein bar. “Why did you e-even, _ngh_ , miss me? I’m clearly,” Tweek states, a little dejectedly. “Insufferable.”

“You’re interesting, even though you’re jaded as hell.” 

“Uh, u-uhm.” Tweek stumbles, looking a little dumbfounded. Craig smiles a little at him. “O-okay.” Tweek adds, flustered.

“Yeah.” Craig picks up his apple and turns it around. Tweek starts opening his mouth and shutting it, without saying anything. Craig gives him a look. “What?”

“N-nothing!” Tweek shakes his head and looks at his book. He flips the cover open and leafs through it. 

“Do you always read history books?”

“I g-guess, maybe. Yeah.”

“You must be doing really well in Samson’s class.”

“I’m failing.”

“How? You probably know more than he does.”

“Th-there are these  _ things _ I can’t explain,” Tweek looks up into Craig’s eyes, unphased by the fact that Craig’s pulse flies higher than any junkie’s state of mind when those grey eyes look at him. “They, th-they rob my time, man.”

“Do they have something to do with all that creepy as fuck shit you did last weekend?”

“It’s, it’s not  _ creepy. _ ” Tweek frowns, back at his book. 

“Oh, really?  _ Really _ ? Are you saying that being at the cemetery every Friday night, playing with dead people isn’t a little eerie?”

“I don’t play with dead people. N-not every Friday.”

“So that’s just once a full moon, then?”

“You don’t n-need to be mean about it.”

“Can I come with you next time?”

“I th-thought you s-said it was creepy.” 

“Yeah, but some creepy things are cool. Like praying mantises.”

“ _What!_ Th-those things aren’t  _ cool _ , they, they’re fucking terrifying!” Craig smirks a little. “They’re cannibals, they’re n-not cool! Cannibals aren’t c-cool! They’re  _ heartless _ ! Wh-what the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“I’m just kidding, Tweek. They are a little much. They’re not like cicadas. Cicadas are actually sweet.” 

“O-oh.” Tweek stutters, looking a little embarrassed at his outburst. “I don’t, I can’t be around bugs.” He resolves. 

“Are you scared of them?”

“No! It’s just, they’re j-just a lot to take in at once.” Tweek whispers.

“Uhm, not really. You’re so much bigger than they are.”

“Th-that's the problem! They’re, they’re small enough to get in a, uh, so m-many _c-crevices._ ” 

“There must be some kind of bug you’re okay with. Come on, there are loads of different species.”

“Butterflies.” Tweek says, without hesitating. Craig’s a little surprised at the simplicity of the answer and it figures Tweek’s still got some bit of normalcy left in him. It’s so cliche. 

“Butterflies drink turtle tears.” Craig responds. Tweek blinks a lot before laughing. It’s the first time Craig’s seen this in years. It’s not a huge display and it’s gone faster than it happened. It’s still something Craig could enjoy for a long time and it nearly scares him. 

“Wh-what?” Tweek says, still with slightly upturned lips. Craig lights up. None of his friends really care about his insect knowledge.

“It’s true. In the Amazon, at least. It’s how some species get sodium. They don’t hurt the turtles.”

“Th-that’s,” Tweek stutters, his eyes are wide but with some kind of wonder in them. Craig is warmed. “That’s incredible. But the turtles, they  _ m-must _ be hurting from something.” Craig shrugs. 

“Probably just moisturizing their eyes.”

“M-maybe they have issues with th-their mortality.” Tweek adds, thoughtfully.

“Yeah. But you don’t have that problem, do you?” Craig says, offhandedly.

“Guess not.” Tweek says, eyes still smiling the slightest bit. He clasps his hands together. 

“ _Can_ I come with you next time?”

“It’s d-dangerous, man.” Tweek says, frowning and looking at his jar. Craig points to it, making a face. 

“What is that?” 

“Smoothie.”

“Looks gross.” 

“I’ll, I-I’ll k-keep that in m-mind, bug boy.” Craig frowns. 

“I’m tough.”

“Huh?”

“I’m strong enough to go with you.”

“M-mentally. You gotta, g-gotta be mentally there, s’all. You,” Tweek sighs. He opens the jar and takes a drink. “It’s hard to process unless you g-grow up with it.”

“Weren’t you at the psych hospital in sophomore year?” Tweek narrows his eyes. He’s silent for a minute. The longer he waits, the more uncomfortable everything becomes. 

“What’s your f-fucking point?” He asks, slowly. 

“No, I just mean that I’m stable.”

“And I’m,  _ ngh _ , n-not? Fuck you, man!” Shit, that escalated fast. Tweek jumps up from the table. His thermos clangs on the ground, once again and he makes the same squeaky noise in response. Kyle and his friends look at the both of them again. Kenny shouts something incomprehensible. Probably crude. Kyle laughs. Stan just looks grumpy. 

“No, Tweek, ah  _ dammit _ ,” Craig struggles to backtrack. He rubs at his face. Kenny’s still shouting things at them, and Craig tries to ignore it. He flips off Kenny. “I didn’t mean it like that, Tweek.” He says seriously.

“W-well, why’d you bring it up?! Wh-what the fuck did, did you _m-mean_?” 

“I’m an asshole?” Craig asks, helplessly. He picks up the thermos and hands back to Tweek. “I just wanted to make conversation. You could give me tips, is all I meant to say. On, you know,” Craig furrows his brows. Words never work out in his favor. “How to stay sane. I want to go with you next time. I have your candle?” He offers. He’s not sure why exactly Tweek makes him flustered. Well, he has some idea but he probably shouldn't admit that yet.

“You’re really shitty a-at that.” Tweek says, carefully, biting his lip. He sits down slowly and Craig feels his back perking up. 

“At what?” He asks, hopelessly. Tweek raises an eyebrow, looking down into his book.

“M-making conversation. You should, should try to accept silence. It’s refreshing.”

“You bring out the chatter in me.” Craig says, after a beat. 

“Hmph, I don’t, don’t know if that’s a good thing, man. You b-bring up praying mantises while p-people are tr-trying to eat and, and th-then c-call  _ me  _ crazy.” Tweek leafs through the book, marking down things hastily with his shitty script. Is it even English that he’s writing in? Craig can’t tell. 

“So,” Craig starts, after they’ve sat comfortably for about as long as Craig’s impatient state can handle. He takes a bite of his salad. Tweek watches with a calculated face and Craig’s not sure what to do with that expression. “ _ Can _ I come with you?”

“H-huh?”

“Can I come to the graveyard next time you go?”

“It’s n-not my place.” 

“I hope it’s not your place. It’s a goddamn cemetery.” 

“It’s a resting state.” Tweek says, quietly, like this is some cherished piece of information. Craig feels like he’s being let in on a secret.

“If I shut up and promise not be an asshole, can I come?”

“Is it,” Tweek starts, nonchalantly, taking a sip of that green sludge. “I didn’t know it was s-something you could control.” Craig flips Tweek off, without thinking about the potential consequences but Tweek sticks his middle finger right back up, as a reflex, looking determined as hell. Craig gets a feeling that swells in his stomach and moves up his lungs. Ah, shit, yep. This is it. Craig's in love with this weirdo across from him who drinks green smoothies, is kind of a bastard and talks to ghosts. 

His parents will be so proud.


	3. Tuesday Night

“That’s, _ngh_ , th-that’s private shit, Clyde.” Tweek warns, when he finds Clyde snooping in his bag. He only left it for a minute to get that book in the library. No one ever goes in this area of the school really, especially after hours. It’s the music section. He thought it’d be safe. He should’ve just taken the bag with him. But if he had done that, security would beep obnoxiously and the librarians would know Tweek had ‘borrowed’ a few more books then he should have. Tweek walks over, anxiously. Clyde looks mad. “What the f-fuck are you doing?” He grabs the bag. He checks to make sure his candles are still in there. They look untouched, but his notebook is missing. He sees it in Clyde’s hands. That’s almost worse. The candles are somewhat replaceable but that notebook took him at least a year to get right. “G-give it back.”

“No.” Clyde’s voice is weird and low. He looks disturbed. They used to live next to each other. They were in it together.

“Did you,” Tweek asks with narrowed eyes. “Wh-what did you see?”

“What is this? Why are you doing this?”

“Wh-what did you read?” Tweek points to the notebook.

“More than enough,” Tweek flinches violently. “You son of bitch. You know this didn’t happen, I don’t buy it.” Clyde paces. “Do you really think you can get someone to believe a word _you_ say?”

“I wasn’t asking anyone to buy anything! Th-that’s, that’s why it’s,” Tweek mutters, trailing off. “Private. I don’t even know what you saw.”

“ _This_ , Tweek, I saw all of _this!_ What the fuck is this shit?!” Clyde throws the book on the ground. It lands face up. A couple old photographs fall out of Clyde and him. They look happy. There are words, half scribbled hastily in what looks like gibberish and English. There are calculations, birthdates and very detailed accounts of what happened eight years ago, in an October. Tweek winces, yelping a little.

“Do you have to, to, _ngh_ , to shout?” Tweek bends to pick up the book, but Clyde throws him against the wall. “The h-hell, Clyde!” Tweek pushes back, with a shriek but just as much force. “It’s j-just, just a memory! It’s n-not, not weird!”

“Don’t even go there, just, don’t,” Clyde glares. Tweek shifts uncomfortably, pulling on his shirt and frowning. Tweek bends again to get the book and catches Clyde’s eyes, who’s glaring with nostrils are fuming. Clyde looks about ready to beat the shit out of Tweek. “I’ll put you in the ground if you think you’re walking out of here with that,” Tweek snorts laughter. It’s bitter. He doesn’t pick up the book. “What the hell are you laughing about?”

“The way you _think_ you know death, man, it’s, it’s f-funny.”

“Don’t tell me what I know. Only I know.” They’re in an odd standoff. Tweek twists his thumbs together. Clyde watches with a face growing more angry.

“We both, b-both saw it. They, th-they hurt b-both,” Tweek begins, can’t seem to grasp what he’s trying to say. He frowns. “We were both _ther----_ ”

“Don’t. Don’t,” Clyde says, with seriousness and grave eyes. “Don’t lie about this. That’s not what happened. Nothing happened, okay?”

“Clyde,” Tweek begins, somewhat sympathetically. “D-dude, denying it w-won’t stop it from h-happening again, to someone else,” Tweek shuffles. “W-we have to be prepared.” He whispers.

“For _what?_ Your psychotic episodes? I thought you got court ordered a daily dose of elephant sedation.” Tweek pinches his brows together. He growls a little. He picks up his book and stuffs it in his bag.

“I am _not_ crazy. I’m not. I d-don’t care wh-what you say.”

“Do you really think I’m the only one who thinks you’re delusional? The whole school does, even Craig does. He thinks you’re bonkers.” Clyde says and though he’s not lying, he’s not letting onto everything. Like the fact that Craig said it dopily, like he’s got a big fat crush on Tweek or something. Like he said it drunk, letting it slip out between his boring facts about the mating habits of bugs, rambling about those beetles that eat shit.

“F-fuck him, too,” Tweek says stiffly, though he looks really hurt by the comment. He sniffs a little. “I’m, I know what happened.”

“You don’t, Tweek. Not really.”

“This, th-this is wh-what happened.” Tweek says, stubbornly.

“Don’t bring me into your shit.”

“We were in it,” Tweek softens his eyes, when he starts to see the fun kid he used to know. A good friend of his, beneath all this misdirected anger and hate. “We w-were in it together. At o-one point.”

“I don’t remember things the way you do. I remember the truth, you remember bullshit. That’s all it was, Tweek. Make believe bullshit.”

“You st-still, still have the scar. I saw when you tipped over the ch-chair yesterday.” Clyde rubs at his hand. Tweek points to it. “Th-that.” He shows Clyde his wrist, with the same type of scar on it. “S-see? Th-that’s not, we didn’t do a blood pact or anything. You would’ve bawled your e-eyes out, man. It was the, the,” Tweek holds his breath, slightly wide eyed. “The aliens.” Clyde stares at him, looking close to breaking and agreeing with Tweek because it would be so much simpler than facing reality. Instead, he gets up, grabs Tweek’s backpack and dumps everything onto the ground. He picks up the journal and walks off, giving Tweek a rough shove.

“If you tell anyone what happened,” Clyde begins, standing in the doorway, with his back to Tweek. The air outside blows snow crystals and it’s a blue evening. There are few people left in the school. “I _will_ shut you up.”

“That’s a b-big th-threat, Clyde, y-you cliche,” Tweek snaps, flinching a little. “Wh-why don’t you j-just run h-home, then? Go on. B-burn that book and I’ve still got an elephant’s memory, a-afterall.” Clyde clenches the door, knuckles turning white. He looks like he’s going to say something but he doesn’t and just walks off, leaving Tweek alone in the school’s least travelled hallway. The music rooms live here, but they’re awfully underfunded. No one really uses the practice rooms afterschool, probably because they don’t want to stick around in this rattrap.

The red exit light glows in Clyde’s absence. Clyde’s just in some dumb denial and he’s taking it out on Tweek. That’s all. He can stand with his group, pretend the aliens don’t exist but Tweek’s not a liar. He knows damn well what happened.

He’s not liar, no matter how many times Clyde calls him one.

Tweek sits on the ground and tries to pick up his stuff. His stupid hands start shaking, shaking too much to do anything useful. They're barely ever useful. He has a long walk home.

 _Home._  Home is an orb, a bubble --- no, no, it’s a freight train. With bells. And a bellowing whistle. A brave whistle. In the worst blizzard, in the company of only echoes.

Tweek feels very alone.

The whistle wasn’t loud enough, even though it screamed and screamed for help. It didn’t stop anything from happening. It _still_ won’t stop the memories from repeating. It didn’t get the train away from the blizzard, all it did was cry on to a barren snowstorm.

Tweek needs sleep. He’s hearing a voice now, and all of his shit is still sprawled on the floor. This voice, though, this voice that he's hearing floats quietly through thin walls, sings and it rings out beautifully. Tweek can’t tell what it’s saying. He looks at his watch and it’s past four thirty. He didn’t think there was a recital tonight or anything like that. Most of the light is coming from the darkening blue snowy sky through that one window and red exit sign. That voice sounds far away.

Tweek doesn’t know if the voice is existing outside of his head or not. He gets up, figuring the most important thing he carried in his bag is already gone thanks to Clyde so nothing else really matters. All this baggage is just waiting on the floor. He follows the voice, trying to be careful not to make too much noise. Down the hall and to the left, away from the door.

Down the hall, to the left, a door to one of the practice rooms is slightly ajar. The voice is louder and shit, there must be someone there. It's breezy, though, confident and like sandpaper all at once. It’s an odd and digestible sound. He can make out a few words. He slides against the wall, closing his eyes to listen.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when the voice stops. He so easily fell asleep and when he wakes up, there’s no one around. The door’s shut, the sound’s gone and the lights are off. His bag is next to him, filled with everything that Clyde dumped on floor except for his notebook. He’s not so sure anymore if the voice was ever real and if it was, then they were surely the only two people left in the school. Tweek doesn’t remember picking up his bag.

He wishes he knew whose voice got him to sleep. Maybe he just mixed his medication days up and he was delusional, _just like Clyde says_. He stretches, a little out of it and checks the time. It's only seven. He exits the way Clyde left, with his bag and heads out towards the cemetery. It's a couple miles away but Tweek's not worried about the walk. He will be protected. He has his candles.

He wants to check in with Sal, a relatively new arrival.

***

_You have cruel parents to give you that name, kid._

“I, I know. You told me l-last week, Sal.”

_Huh. Did I? How’s Susie?_

“F-fine. B’s and C’s. Star athlete. She’s okay.”

_Atta girl._

“She misses you, th-though” Tweek pats the headstone. “H-have you been making friends a-at least? Until, until y-you move on?”

_When does that happen?_

“I don’t know," Tweek picks at the candle. "I’m, I’m j-just th-the messenger.”

_Careful, kid, somebody’ll shoot ya._

“Are you, y-you joking?” Tweek asks, a little paranoid. The candle flickers.

 _Why aren’t_ you _out with friends, Tweek?_

“W-we’re not friends?”

_I don’t count. You can’t even see me, can you? I’m the ghost of a fifty eight year old accountant. It’s already sketchy that we do talk._

“I’m n-not picky.”

_Yes, you are._

“Oh.”

_You should stay out of here, Tweek. I remember sunlight. It just comes in rays now. I don’t have the same feeling. Don’t you have friends your own age?_

“Mila.”

_Mila’s been dead for forty years, son._

“St-still counts. I think.”

_Sure, sure. You know that they’re coming after you._

“Who, wh-who told you that?”

_It’s common knowledge._

“Uh, uhm, S-Sal.”

_Yes, Tweek?_

“H-how do you know that?” Tweek asks. The candle looks near going out. “Wh-when are they coming? D-do, do you _know_?”

 _I miss Susie._ The candle goes out and Tweek frowns into the night. These conversations are always personal and poignant. There’s no way he’s letting Craig near this place. All he’d see was Tweek talking to a candle, sounding out to nothing. Besides, Tweek doesn’t feel up to sharing anything with Craig, let alone seeing him. 

Shit, that’s not true. He definitely feels like seeing Craig. He wants to know everything about Craig. He wants to know where Craig walks when he’s happy. How does he get to places? Does he always walk so slowly? What makes him run? What color do his eyes look like in winter sunlight, when the sky’s just turned pink? Would he throw a penny in a fountain if he went by one and make a wish? Could he lie without guilt and would he lie for the wrong reasons? How many people has he hurt? Does he hurt? Where would he map out his future? Does he lip sync or belt it out, his favorite song? Does he sing nicely? Tweek bets he does. Does he miss pop rocks? Did he _really_ miss Tweek or does he just feel shitty and nostalgic about growing up?

Tweek just doesn’t want to see Clyde. Craig’s always around those guys. What would they do if they knew Tweek spent his nights talking to candles? Probably what his parents did, after _they_  saw him doing this, after the aliens came by and his mother swore that dragon man was going to get Tweek if they didn’t lock him away.

Clyde would lock him away. Socially, at least. What are friends good for anyway? They just rat you out, call you a liar and forget everything you've been through together. 

Dragon man did get Tweek. That’s what his mom never understood. Those aliens, fast cars, all the voices and rope, they all belonged to dragon man. Maybe if he didn’t have this special power, they would’ve left him alone. But they prodded and tried to get at it. Tweek’s not sure how they even got away, him and Clyde. Clyde told him that maybe if Tweek wasn’t blonde, they would’ve left them both alone. Tweek doesn’t know what blondeness has to do with alien investigations, but Clyde was upset and hurting, too, so he tries not to take the blame personally.

It’s not Tweek’s fault, though. Tweek didn’t send out any transmission. He never wanted those aliens to take them away. Tweek was trying to be normal that day and forget. He was just trying to be a good friend.

Tweek knew they shouldn’t have been in that playground, six years ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so i don't actually know the whole plot this time but at least i didn't kill off craig again, hahah. XD thanks for reading, dudes, if you wanna comment i really appreciate it!


	4. Thursday Afternoon

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“He can't be coming back in here today. He’s been here three times since lunch.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking about.”  _ Damn Token and his stupid work period in the library. _

“Craig, man, you’re so transparent,” Token laughs at Craig. “Just help me understand this science bullshit, like you said you would.” Craig raises an eyebrow. 

“You mean like  _ you  _ said you’d meet me at the cemetery last friday?” Token huffs a little. 

“I told you that my dad surprised everyone with dinner. I couldn’t exactly  _ leave  _ to meet you in a graveyard. That would’ve been rude.”

“What do you care? You’re often rude. And takeout doesn’t count as a surprise. It’s not hard to call and order, Token. It’s not a special occasion in your house. A text would’ve been nice.”

“How many times do I have to apologize before you help me with this dark matter crap?”

“Eight.” Craig says, quickly. Token shakes his head.

“I’m not saying it eight times.”

“Then have fun explaining what’s to the right ascension of the moon in three weeks and why you know.” 

“Craig, come on,” Token groans, somewhat desperately. Craig looks semi-distracted still, glancing around the library. Token chuckles. “He’s a weird guy.” 

“Huh?” Craig asks. 

“Tweek. He’s weird.”

“So?” Craig says defensively. 

“So  _ nothing.  _ You’re weird, too. You’d make a good couple.” Craig furrows his brows and turns pretty red, fumbling to open up the textbook. Token can’t stop laughing at him. He’s never seen Craig so uncomfortable and awkward, before this year. Well, Craig’s never been  _ aware _ that he’s awkward. That's what's so hilarious about this. 

“Shut up, Token. I’m not,” Craig starts. “Just, just, _okay._  What’s your damn test all about?”

“Space.” Token says. Craig rolls his eyes. 

“No, no, what about space?”

“Aliens?”

“God, you’re useless. Give me your syllabus.” Token pulls out a crumpled up syllabus and hands it over to Craig.

“How are you doing in Samson’s class?” Token asks, nonchalantly. Craig frowns a little.

“I’m close to failing.”

“I was talking to Tweek yesterday.” Token gauges a reaction from Craig, who barely moves much, save for his mouth tightening a bit and his face growing fire. 

“So?” Craig snaps.

“Nothing. He just helped me out a little with the history homework 'cause I missed Monday,” Token says, carefully. “I’m not doing as shitty as you, though.” Craig flips him off. “I bet he’d help you out. I have his number.”

“He has a phone?” Craig asks, with a little bit too much interest. 

“Yep, I was surprised, too.”

“He told me he was failing that class.”

“Well, he knows a lot about that kind of stuff anyway, even if he’s failing. How the law works, especially. He’s got that down.”

“That’s cool. He’s  _ really _ smart.” Craig says, a little googly eyed. Token smiles at him.

“Sounds like you’re into that.”

“No, he’s just,” Craig starts, grumbling. “It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t think that supernovas were named after the super bowl.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Yes, you did. When we were eight.” 

“Shit, we’ve been friends forever.”

“Yeah, and you’re still an idiot. I don’t know how that happened.”

“Clyde, also. Clyde’s not very smart, either.”

“Must be all the concussions you two get.”

“I’ve only had one. He's had five already.”

“And you guys think I’m pretentious for wanting to watch something a little more complex than football.”

“No one wants to watch what you do. It’s boring, Craig. I don’t want to stare at a screen just to learn about ants.”

“No, it’s not boring at all. There’s a self-exploding ant, Token. It will sacrifice itself for ‘the greater good’ if it feels threatened. How is that boring? They have a built-in explosio---”

“Craig, I know you think that’s cool and it’s great that you’re into it, but it’s not something we can all get behind.” 

“I guess it’s easier for you to understand when all you have to follow is the pretty ball that flies,” Craig puts his head in his hands. “ _ Ooh, look at it go...how does it do that without wings? _ ” Craig says, sarcastically.

“You’re an ass.”

“Not really. I’m just explaining what you’re thinking.” 

“Right, that’s what I was doing earlier.”

“Huh?” 

“About Tweek and you. You’re so obviously in love with him.”

“‘M not.”

“You __ are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Dude, come on, you can let it up. It’s fine, I don’t care that you like guys. You know that.”

“I don’t like Tweek, okay?” Craig mutters a little, lying. They’re not exactly alone in the library. Token smiles, smugly. 

“Really? Wanna share that with him?” Token points over to the encyclopedia section that no one’s ever in. It has its own separate room. There’s Tweek, standing in alone, wearing clunky old headphones as he browses all those heavy duty old books. Craig stares at him stupidly. Tweek doesn’t notice them, sitting in front of the library. Craig frowns to himself and looks back at the paper. He’s only gotten more flustered and anxious since he ate lunch that one day with Tweek. 

“I don’t think he likes  _ me _ that much.” Craig says, trying to pass it off like it doesn’t matter. He fails miserably. 

“Bullshit, you self-pitying asshole. Tweek tolerates other people okay but he actually talked to you. You guys would always run off on your own and play together when we were kids. Remember? He followed you everywhere. He only trusted you.”

“That was years ago.” Craig says, pathetically. Hopelessly.

“You’re smart. Go see what he’s reading about. Go be a big dork in front of him. I hear that’s a turn on. Nerds are in again.” Craig glares.

“Fuck you.”

“Thought you were saving that for Tweek.”

“Goddammit, Token.” Craig grimaces, embarrassed. Token snorts. 

“Catch him before he leaves.”

“What about your science test?”

“Alden likes football,” Token grins, putting his stuff away. He stretches and yawns. “I can probably get a pass.”

“I’ll never understand that.” Craig mutters and gets up. He walks over to the encyclopedias as smoothly as his nervousness will let him. Tweek doesn’t notice Craig, so Craig starts looking at all the books on the wall. He pulls out one old textbook and flips through it, not really paying attention to what’s in it. He’s really just focused on the fact that out of the corner of his eye, Tweek’s nearby. After a couple minutes of staring at the same page, Craig hears Tweek walk towards him. He looks up. Tweek’s squinting at him as he pulls off his headphones and pushes them down around neck. 

“Are, a-are you a religious f-fanatic?” Tweek asks, still squinting. Craig shakes his head. He looks at the book. Oh. Shit. 

“Oops, I didn’t mean to get this…” Craig trails off as Tweek pulls the book out of his hands. He puts it back where it goes. He walks away and Craig feels a little abandoned. Tweek’s going through the aisles and he comes back with another book. It’s thin. He hands it to Craig. 

“It’s, i-it’s a, uh, novel.” 

“Huh,” Craig says, a little breathlessly because those eyes are looking right at him, hopeful. “I’ll check it out.” Tweek smiles a little. 

“Y-yeah. It’s g-good. Kind of funny. The author w-was, she was very Christian. But the b-book isn’t all that, uhm, r-religious. It’s pretty dark, actually.” 

“I’m not into religion.” Tweek looks confused. 

“Why a-are you in the r-religion section, then?” Craig shakes his head. He points to Tweek’s headphones.

“No clue. What are you listening to?”

“Kogan,” Tweek says, slowly. He pulls off the headphones. “Wanna, w-wanna, um?” He asks, somewhat lamely.

“Sure,” Craig croaks a little when Tweek steps forward. He pulls off Craig’s hat. “Hey!” 

“I-if you’re gonna listen, you have to h-hear. It’d be pointless to, to listen to Kogan with impaired hearing.” Craig pushes down his hair, self consciously aware of how it sticks up in all the wrong, uneven places. “Don’t do that,” Tweek mumbles as he moves Craig’s hands down. Until this moment, Craig had always known that lepidopterans in North America migrate in the winter, generally speaking, to Mexico, Florida and California. When Tweek moves his ghostly hand over Craig’s head, Craig’s nearly positive that his stomach is the only destination of lepidoptera migration. He feels the fluttering wings of thousands of moths and monarchs, way up in his lungs all the way across his stomach. When Tweek breathes, the wings move faster. He smells like citronella candles. “What are you even worried about? You s-see my hair?” Tweek puts the headphones over Craig’s ears. Craig wonders why Tweek just didn’t hand them to him. He pulls out a Walkman from his pocket and presses play on the old thing. Craig smiles. The music starts going and it’s intense, beautiful violins. Tweek looks at him expectantly. 

“How many violinists?” Craig asks.

“One,” Tweek grins. “J-just the one.”

“No way.”

“Yeah huh.” 

“That’s not one guy.”

“Yeah, it is. K-Kogan, his name w-was K-Kogan.”

“Jesus. That’s impressive. You better not be lying.”

“I d-don’t lie,” Tweek says, carefully. “Isn’t it beastly?” 

“Yeah, it is. Definitely,” Tweek gives him a toothy little smile. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Not well. Do you?”

“Not really.” Craig lies a little. The music is still going on, this winsome, haunting violin sound that captures his feelings towards this weirdo holding his hat more accurately than Craig ever will be able to express in words. 

“O-oh, f-for some reason, I th-thought you would.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t, d-don’t know." They sit next to each other for some time, Craig enjoying the music and the company, Tweek reading his books. The tape ends abruptly and Craig looks at Tweek. Tweek makes a face. "I sh-should probably head out.” 

“Already?” Tweek looks at him a little funny. 

“What do you mean  _ already _ ? W-we’ve been here for half an hour.” Tweek says, looking at this old watch he’s got on his wrist. 

“Really?” Craig asks, dumbfounded. “Can I walk you home? I mean,” Craig frowns. “Can I walk with you? Uhm, you’re not like a schoolgirl or anything. I won’t hold your books. No homo.”  _ Hot damn, that went downhill fast _ . Craig pulls on his sleeves anxiously, and yeah, it’s all a little homo. Tweek widens his eyes at him.

“Uh, I, sweet  _ jesus _ ,” Tweek mutters. “What  _ w-was _ th-that?! Wh-what did you j-just say?” 

“I’m going that way, is all I mean,” Craig shrinks a little under Tweek’s gaze and he didn’t think someone who’s this much shorter than him would ever make him feel small. “We can walk together.”

“I g-guess,” Tweek mumbles. They’re still semi-connected by the Walkman and headphones. Craig takes the headphones off and hands them back to Tweek, whose hands are now shaking. He stops the walkman from playing. He gives Craig his hat back. “Here you go,  _ ngh _ , b-bug boy.” Tweek adds. Craig perks up. 

“Do you know there’s a self-exploding ant?” He asks, as they head out of the library together. Tweek shakes his head. 

“Wh-what, what does that mean?!” 

“They explode, if necessary. They’re the only known species which will sacrifice themselves for the whole with that kind of built in defense system, if they see a large enough threat from the distance.” 

“A-are you serious?!”

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

“That’s fucking bizarre.” 

“The stuff they explode is poisonous, too and it traps the predator, killing them. Only they die slowly and painfully.” 

“Jesus,” Tweek whispers. “C-can’t you tell me a nice fact about bugs? Where, where they a-aren’t terrorists?” Craig thinks about this. 

“Like a children’s story?” Craig asks. Tweek looks him up and down. 

“Preferably.” 

“Uhm,” Craig smiles to himself. “Mosquitos were around when the dinosaurs lived.” Tweek groans. 

“Wh-what? No, try again.” 

“Okay,” Craig starts. “You said you liked butterflies, right?”

“Y-yeah, I do.” 

“How about moths?”

“D-depends on what you’re going to tell me.”

“Damn, okay. Dragonflies? How about them?”

“I, I g-guess.” 

“They see everything in slow motion. Well, relative to how we see things. They see something like two hundred frames per second when we only see sixty. They spot the tiniest things. They experience time so much different than we do.” 

“Wh-why do you love them so much? I-insects, I mean.” Craig shrugs. 

“I don’t know. They’re really strong. They impress me. Most of them can carry fifty times their weight. It’d be like one of us lifting a car by ourselves, proportionately speaking.”

“R-really? That’s a-awesome.” 

“Yeah, it is, Tweek.” They’ve been walking for some time now and they’re approaching houses.

“D-do you still live by the train tracks?”

“Mhmm. Same old boring room.” 

“Uhm, didn’t w-we pass your house?”

“I,” Craig looks around. “I guess.” 

“O-oh.”

“Do you still live in that green house down here?” Tweek shakes his head. 

“No.” He says, coldly. 

“Where do you live?”

“N-not this way.”

“Whoops.” Craig says. He shuffles the snow under his feet. It crunches. 

“I w-wasn’t going to g-go home anyway.”

“Yeah? Going to the graveyard?”

“No.” Tweek scoffs.

“Alright, asshole.” 

“Fuck you, t-too, man.” 

“You’re so smart.” 

“H-huh?” Tweek stammers. Craig shuts his eyes and shakes his head, in some kind of internal annoyance. 

“Ah, shit, I mean, would you help me with my history homework? Tomorrow, over lunch?”

“Uh, wh-why do you need h-help?”

“Because I’m a dumb little shit, buddy.” Craig grins. Tweek frowns. 

“You’re not dumb.”

“Samson thinks so. My mom,” Craig starts, shaking his head. “We can sneak food into the library. We can listen to your music.”

“O-okay. I g-guess I can help you.” 

"Thanks." Craig smiles and Tweek offers back a hesitant one. 

"S-sure." 

"Til tomorrow?"

"Yeah, t-tomorrow." Tweek says, softly. Craig feels the flutters again and dammit, he thought he was just starting to feel like himself. He sighs and heads back home, towards his house. Tweek cuts through the woods and Craig has no idea where that kid went. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops i so didn't mean to make this story this long. it has like three other chapters too. wow. this is something guys i don't know why i'm doing it. 
> 
> comments are always totally loved!! thanks for reading lol. <3


	5. Friday

Tweek’s pretty sure that neon screams and not even Tchaikovsky or Chopin can drown out the noise. It’s loud and excruciating and fuck, it’s hot in here. He doesn’t know why he did the things he did. He doesn’t know why that deck of cards is still in his bag, still carrying some of that old cigar and rum smell that Tweek hates.  

His wrist stings. 

The morning is crisp, outside, and Tweek’s thankful for that little window in this dull classroom. He has more important things to be doing than sitting here, listening to Samson drone on about the start of the Cold War. He’s mad. The dates are wrong, Samson’s  _ wrong _ , but he’s not about to jump up and debate with him that U.S.-Russia tensions actually started in 1918, not 1947. He doesn’t nitpick in front of crowds anymore. The last time he stood up in a room full of this many people and claimed his ground about what happened, they put him in a psychiatric hospital. 

The silence was hell. 

He knows there are eyes on him now and he’s not sure why. Token, _Token’s_  even looking at him expectantly and Samson, too. He frowns. Samson walks up to him and puts his hand out. 

“Wh-what?” Tweek asks. Samson says something but the clarinets are softly playing in his ears and he can’t hear anything else. Well, besides that shrieking neon. Oh. That’s what’s happening. He takes off his headphones and everything becomes really banal again, even though he’s heard this song at least forty times. He pauses his Walkman. 

“I’ll take those now,” Samson says and Tweek fumes a little, but hands them over, begrudgingly. “Thanks, Tweek.” 

“Mm.” 

“You can get them back after class. I used to have one of these.” Samson mutters to himself, smiling fondly at his childhood and he has a bit of a soft spot for Tweek, partially due to the nostalgia of the kid in general. He directs his attention back to the class, giving a lecture that Tweek’s not really caring about. Token’s looking at him again. Samson’s distracted by the smarties in the front row. 

“Tweek,” Token says. Tweek gives him a look. “Come sit with us today.” Tweek frowns.

“N-no.” Tweek answers simply. He turns back to his bag. 

“Come on, Craig needs a nerd to talk to,” Tweek looks around the room. He doesn’t actually see Craig anywhere. Token catches on. “He’s coming in late. Doctor’s appointment.” 

“I-is he okay?” 

“He’s fine, Tweek.” 

“Oh. G-good,” Tweek says, a little relieved. “For him, I guess.” He adds. 

“Yeah.” Token grins. “Come on, man. We miss you.”

“Wh-why d-does everyone care all of the s-sudden?” Token shrugs. “Will C-Clyde be there, too?” Token nods. 

“It’ll be just like old times, all four of us together again. Well, plus Stan and those guys. But, it’ll be  _ almost _ like when we were kids.” Samson stops talking and the silence gets to Tweek. He's expecting a small lecture.

“Token,” Samson warns. “I know it’s Friday and we’re all a little brain dead, but you have to pay attention. You, too, Tweek. You have an exam next Tuesday.” Tweek rolls his eyes and puts his head on his desk. The rest of the class goes by pretty pathetically. Token’s doodling crappy little block letters. Wendy’s writing everything down, her hand moving faster than Samson’s rambling. That clock on the wall doesn’t necessarily mock, but it sure aims to hurt some feelings. It moves so slowly. When it’s finally all over, Tweek’s got his bag all ready and he walks up to Samson’s desk, sticking his hand out. 

“P-please.” He half pleads. Samson hands the Walkman and headphones back to him. 

“What are you listening to?” Tweek looks at him a little hopelessly. He fumbles with the cassette player. 

“Uhm, y-you.” Samson gives him a look. He laughs a little. 

“Guess I earned that, kid. So, what are we going to do about your grade?”

“I’m not d-doing w-well, am, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Samson starts typing things up on his computer. He motions for Tweek to come around on the other side. “Here, that’s your grade. Now, I don’t know how you can graduate with this. How are your other classes?”

“Okay.” Tweek says honestly.  Samson gives him a look that says he doesn’t believe Tweek. 

“Really? You’re not failing anything else?”

“Just your c-class, I, I’m failing. And science.”

“What is it, earth science?” Tweek shakes his head. 

“Biology.”

“Well, Tweek, I think you should meet with a tutor.”

“I, I d-don’t need a tutor, I j-just need time.”

“Okay. Here’s what I’m going to do,” Samson starts off. Tweek makes a small noise. “I can give you until the end of the semester, but you have to make up the two essays you didn’t turn in and write me one report. I’ll give you a prompt, don’t worry about that right now. Just focus on the exam this week and the essays you missed. Sound good?” Tweek nods a little.

“Th-thanks.” He says, somewhat devoid of much happiness. Busy work, it's all busying and it's not like Samson would let him write about something interesting. Those essays were all supposed to be about colonial times in America and Tweek’s sick of reading that buttered up, Disney, PG version of their disgusting origins that lies in those textbooks. 

“Sure,” Samson doesn’t seem to pick up on Tweek’s bitter attitude. “I still think you should look into a tutor. At least for the biology class. You know Craig, don’t you?” 

“Y-yeah, it’s fine, th-though. I got it.” 

“Craig’s always in astronomy club. Please stop in and see us some time. He’d help you out. He doesn’t mind. He does it for other students.” _O_ _ h of course he still likes stars and aliens and  _ fuck. 

“I have to g-go. Th-thanks f-for, uhm, yeah.” Tweek says, uncomfortably, as he exits the classroom. He heads down the stairs and out for the side doors, headphones on, blasting mellow music until he calms down. The air's nice and fresh and wintery. 

Tweek's getting mostly C’s, except this history class and the stupid science class but really? Fuck all the screaming he’s hearing and that rough hand that reeks like cigars. Tweek can still feel it ---- no wait,  _ that _ was the alien hand. Stupid, Tweek, you’re a fucking moron. But why did it smell like cigars? Dragon man must’ve,  _ yeah, that makes sense _ . Dragon man must’ve known. This is why he likes the graveyard; it’s semi-quiet. He’s half heartedly thought out all the ways he could off himself for the past three years. He doesn’t know if that would make all this bullshit go away. He hopes he won’t be a ghost. Some move on, others don’t and Tweek can’t find the pattern in who has to stick around. He’d rather be dust, sometimes. It’d be freeing. No more memories.

Why did it smell like cigars? Why did it look so human? They have to wear a skin, right? To disguise themselves? To seem normal enough. But Tweek  _ thought  _ they were grey and blue. Cold. They were cold. 

Tweek knew they should’ve stayed away from dragon man and now no one believes him. Why can’t they just see the goddamn scars? Something taps his shoulder and he jumps up, shrieking a bit. He yanks off his headphones and is hit by the breeze. 

“J-jesus, wh-what the fuck?!” He turns and he’s face to face with Craig, who looks embarrassed and surprised. “Wh-what the fuck?” Tweek repeats, through heavy breaths. Craig waves a little. 

“Hey, man.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Tweek repeats. Tweek starts breathing more rapidly. He glances around, somewhat pathetically with eyebrows pulled together. He looks away from Craig. He’s still breathing heavy because really, that hand, the weird humanoid gin-soaked, cigar smelling hand was  _ right _ there at one point before it moved down lowe--- no, _no_ , that's not what happened. "Shit, shit." What if everyone who’s walking around is just disguised and Tweek’s in some kind of experiment and he’s the only one anyone wil----

“Do you wanna try taking four breaths?” Tweek frowns a little, still wide eyed and he seems to be judging Craig. Craig waits, patiently. “My sister’s into yoga. I count with her, sometimes. It helps when she’s nervous,” Craig coughs. Tweek shakes. Craig stares at him. “I’ll count with  _ you _ .” 

“I, I, y-yeah, okay.” Tweek says, through fast breaths. 

“Alright. Breathe in,” Tweek does so, tripping over his own pattern, but he gets there. “You can breathe out now. Good job. That’s one. Two, breathe in,” Tweek shuts his eyes and tries to relax his face. He tries to listen to Craig's soft tones. He's got a nice voice. Tweek bets he can sing. “And breathe out. Three. Big inhale, Tweek.” He continues. Tweek’s eyelids don’t really have any more creases in them. He looks pretty chill. Craig waits. “You can release it. Four, one last time. Focus on filling up your stomach. Swarm it with air.” He says, slowly. “Alright, you can let it out now. That’s four. You’re all done, buddy,” Tweek blinks his eyes open. “Feel better?” Craig mumbles, Tweek’s eyes are scanning Craig’s face rapidly, but he’s no longer hyperventilating.

“Thanks,” Tweek says a little more evenly. “Th-thanks.” Craig reddens a little and that’s odd. Tweek doesn’t get why. Maybe he’s just cold. 

“What are you listening to today?” Craig asks, pointing to the Walkman. 

“Wieniawski.”

“Nice.” Craig says. 

“D-do you even know who th-that is?”

“No.” Craig admits, somewhat embarrassed. 

“H-here.” Tweek hands Craig the headphones and the Walkman this time, too.

“Where’d you get this thing anyway?”

“I inherited it. It was my d-dad’s.” Tweek says, flinching a little.

“Shit, Tweek, when did your dad die? I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” Tweek shrugs.

“It’s o-okay. He d-died doing what he loved. Shooting up in an alley. It was a f-few years back.” 

“Jesus Christ, Tweek.”

“I th-thought you weren’t religious.” Tweek says, a little sassily and Craig's surprised at how easily he's moved on. But Craig supposes that Tweek's been able to talk to his dad since he died. So it might not be as awful as it is for nearly everyone else.

“That’s funny.”

“I didn’t think so. K-keep that,” Tweek points to the Walkman. “F-for the r-rest of today. Listen to it.” Tweek says, demandingly. 

“Alright, sure. Sure. Thanks. Did you eat yet?”

“N-no.”

“Can you still help me with Samson’s homework?”

“Wh-what’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Craig asks, kind of nervously. Tweek rolls his eyes.

“Wh-why were you at th-the doctor’s?”

“How did you know?”

“Token.”

“Fuck him," Craig says, with glaring eyes and it makes Tweek giggle a little. "It’s nothing.”

“R-really? You g-got a b-big bandage on y-your head.”

“Wow, that’s keen of you, Tweek. I hadn’t noticed,” Craig says, sarcastically. Tweek raises his eyebrows a little. “You should see the  _ other _ guy.” Tweek widens his eyes. He breathes out a humorous, windy little sound. Craig laughs a little.

“R-really? Dude, d-did you piss off Kyle again?”

“No. And he pissed me off last week.”

“Why  _ d-did _ you fight Kyle? I, I m-mean I s-saw it. The tail end, when the principal p-pulled you apart. You looked like shit.” Tweek says, with a little sympathy.

“He called you a psycho.” Craig blurts and wow, wow, Tucker, why don’t you just go marry the guy. Tweek frowns, uncomfortably trying to process the information with a distracted mind. 

“Lots of people call me crazy. It doesn’t,” Tweek squints. “It doesn’t matter. I, I’m t-trying,” Tweek grits his teeth. “Trying n-not to let it b-bother me.”

“Okay, bud,” Craig says, with a lot of disbelief. “You always get bent out of shape when someone says anything it so it must matter to you.”

"Well, wh-what were you trying to do? B-be some knight in shining armor?"

"No." Craig says. 

“What happened to your head?” Tweek points to it.

“Baseball bat.” Craig shrugs.

“That’s fucking v-vague.”

“You want me to go into detail?”

“Yeah.”

“One _ wooden _ baseball bat.”

“Craig.” Tweek groans.

“It was pine. So soft.”

“Yeah, uh huh, I bet. L-looks it.”

“Doesn’t matter much. ‘S fine now. They gave me happy pills. Wanna head inside?”

“Wh-why?”

“‘Cause I’m cold.”

“Sh-shoot, really?” Craig nods, rubbing his hands together slowly. Tweek smiles a little. “W-whoa, you’re just l-like your bugs.” 

“What?” 

“You s-slow down when it’s cold.” 

“Hey, how do you know that?” Even though it’s common knowledge, Craig’s just overjoyed that he’s not the first one to bring up insects in a conversation. 

“It’s n-not, I’m n-not that d-dumb.” 

“No, you’re really smart. Like,” Craig starts, but gets distracted by the cold. He inhales deeply. “ _ Fuck, it’s freezing. _ ” Tweek takes off his coat. He hands it over to Craig. Craig looks at him like he’s nuts. 

“I, I d-don’t g-get cold. J-just, d-don’t be weird and t-take it. If y-you want help with your h-homework. I,” Tweek frowns. “I don’t wanna see Clyde today. S-so we’re staying out here.”

“Um.” Craig says. Tweek rolls his eyes.

“D-dude, don’t make me p-put it on you.” Craig takes the jacket, which only fits Craig because it’s about two sizes too big on Tweek. 

“Did you inherit this too?”

“N-no, I stole it. What do you need help with?”

“Most of what we’ve covered. I don’t get history.”

“Is h-hard for you to remember? I-is that the trouble? ‘C-cause you’re v-very smart.” Tweek states, matter-of-factly. Craig reddens. He puts the cassette player in his pocket and wraps up Tweek's headphones.

“I just don’t get what’s considered important.”

“Th-that’s understandable,” Tweek laughs. “A lot of f-factors. But, w-well everything’s, it’s a-all connected, right? So, sometimes, th-things th-that seem awful and impossible, like they couldn't have happened, c-can be traced back to a handful of sm-small, normal things.” 

“I guess I get that.” 

“F-fine, Craig, remember when your p-parents grounded you for helping Clyde and I j-jump off the roof?”

“Yeah.” Craig laughs. “Yeah, I do.” Tweek smiles.

“Clyde ended up in the hospital and I broke my arm. Okay. So we, w-we all got s-some shit and we probably all remember it. B-big moment in our personal histories.”

“Maybe not Clyde. He’s had five concussions since then.”

“Wow, okay. O-okay. R-really? Wow. So, s-so, the point is, do you r-remember how that all st-started?”

“Uhm, not really.”

“It started seven months before we jumped off the roof.”

“Shit, you have an airtight memory. Seven months exactly? How'd you remember that?”

“I, I l-like numbers,” Tweek shares. “They’re honest. O-okay, so seven months before Clyde went to the ER and I broke my arm, Clyde and I b-bought this comic book together. They, th-they could fly so high, Craig. It was great. And we thought, h-hey, let’s plan this out and become super heroes.”

“Oh, yeah. I _do_ remember that.”

“R-right,” Tweek's smile grows bigger, remembering the past and boy, it feels good to talk to Craig again. It almost feels normal, even though it’s been so long. “Right! S-so, I g-guess,” Tweek fumbles for his point again. “I g-guess what I w-was trying to say is that,” He frowns a little. “This is a r-really basic explanation, too. B-but, for me, how I got my first broken bone can be traced b-back to buying that c-comic book.”

“But then you’re saying that everything’s important.”

“Kind of, y-yeah.” Tweek agrees.

“But how am I supposed to remember everything?”

“Well, you’re  _ not _ ,” Tweek scoffs. “School isn’t f-for _everyone_. When Samson asks why the U.S. dropped the A-Bomb on Japan, I g-gotta dig up everything before I can answer. It t-takes y-years.” 

“Seems like it. Science is so straightforward. They give you the facts and it’s not all convoluted.”

“Sp-speak for yourself. Th-they have too many units of m-measurement. _I_ don’t, d-don’t understand.”

“You want help?” Craig asks. “We could go over the exam sheet for Samson’s class. You can water down the history for me," Craig smiles a bit and whoa, Tweek didn't realize he missed that as much as he did. "I can teach you about your science stuff.”

“Y-yeah? You would?” Maybe Sal’s right, maybe Tweek should stay out of the cemetery more. This _is_ different. This almost feels like living, when Craig’s looking at him and running that pretty sound. When he can actually see the subtle expressions on his old friend’s face. 

“Absolutely. I can help. It’ll be a date,” Craig says and immediately cringes. “I mean a study date. I mean.  _ Fuck _ .” He hisses. Tweek’s heart is thumping loudly. 

“F-fuck!?  _Wh-what?!_ " Tweek exclaims, with panicking breathing. Craig lowers his head, trying to salvage the situation in the best way he knows how; random facts. 

"Did you know that luna moths have no mouths as adults and that's why they only live for a week?" Tweek looks at Craig, alarmed but still amused. He snorts a little.   

"The hell, dude!" He laughs. "Why a-are you so weird?”

“No idea. I'm not normally," He starts, pulling on the coat. " _You_ do this to me."

" _I_ d-do? Wh-what, what do you mean?"

"Nothing, Tweek. It's fine." Tweek bites his lip.

"If i-it makes you f-feel better, I m-missed you, too." Craig grins to himself, dopily and big, looking at the ground. 

"That definitely makes me feel better." Tweek points to the headphones Craig's been holding onto. 

"Listen to, to it, y-yeah? I have to g-go to gym i-if I'm going t-to graduate." Tweek says, carefully. Craig nods. 

"Yeah. Thanks." Tweek starts to walk off and Craig stops him. 

"Take your coat back." Tweek eyes him up and down, squinting a little. He gives a small tight-lipped smile. 

"Nah, you need it m-more than I do, cricket."

"Cricket?" Craig asks when Tweek starts walking away. 

"Hey, man, I only know so many bugs." He says, with his hands in the air as he walks back into the building. Craig stands alone, watching Tweek leave. He pulls on the hood of Tweek's coat, this old parka, still shivering in the cold, in a jacket that smells like citronella and stale rum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments you guys have been giving me; i really appreciate it!! if you have any critical advice, i'd totally appreciate that too! or even if you have, like, an area of the story you'd like me to do a chapter on. just let me know and yeah. :3 <3


	6. Saturday Night

Clyde spends most nights in the loud, often obnoxious company of others. It’s better than listening to his own internal breathing. His only person. His own pulse. Bad things happen when you’re small. Bad things happen to goofy, careless kids.

Clyde’s gotten strong. He eats large, healthy meals every morning and works out at least twice a day, at least half an hour. No more chips. No more mars bars.

For the past year, Clyde’s been trying to let the presence of Tweek be. He’s been trying to ignore the memories of half eaten mars bars stuffed in Tweek’s pressed Sunday shirt that was buttoned up straight and crisp. It was off, though he looked nearly normal to anyone that didn’t know. Every once in awhile, Clyde’ll see him now, sitting in the library, shaking over books or shouting at thin air by the old baseball park. Clyde tries not to think about what happened eight years ago, but one twitch brings back some things he’d rather not think about. 

They were small. Clyde’s not small anymore, but Tweek’s still as spunky looking and blonde. He wears clothes that are twice as big on him. Clyde grimaces.  _ If Tweek wasn’t blonde _ , he remembers overhearing his dad say,  _ if Tweek wasn’t blonde, nothing would’ve happened.  _ He was peeking through the door, lit by the fluorescent kitchen light above the stove. His dad was on the phone. Clyde can't remember who it was with. He just remembers the greenish tint on his dad's face, that made the water on his face sparkle. It's the only time he's seen his father cry and he thought he was alone.

Clyde doesn’t hate Tweek. Not really, not anymore. He misses him, even, at least a little, but he’d never admit it aloud. He can’t be friends with the person he’s turned into. Tweek is beyond delusional about what happened. 

There were no aliens. There was no “dragon man”, as Tweek kept repeating, rocking back and forth. He became obsessed. Possessed, nearly.

Clyde remembers that, too, especially. Afterwards. 

Tweek had whispered nonsense, distraught, disheveled in all the wrong places. That candy wrapper held half a mars bar, with the almond nougat. Clyde couldn’t speak, couldn’t say anything. He now knows one rough hand belonged to a man that ran a casino. The van smelled like bad rum. To this day, Clyde can’t go near the stuff.

Expensive cigars, too. The casino man gave them mars bars. He wasn’t alone. 

Clyde tries not to think about it anymore, because nothing happened, after all. Nothing happened. 

He hasn’t touched that notebook, _Tweek's_ notebook filled with lies and conspiracies and insane ramblings, since Tuesday. It’s still sitting under his bed, peeking out a little bit and he doesn’t want anyone else to see it. 

“Don’t feel like it.” Craig’s sitting in his room, sprawled out cockily and checking out Clyde’s record collection. He’s ignoring Clyde’s desperate pleads for company at this party tonight. 

“Come on, Craig, don’t be lazy. Lots of  _ booze _ ,” Clyde sing songs. He’s still pretty charming and he’s never nervous. Outwardly. “Kyle will be there.” 

“So?”

“ _So_ , I thought you wanted some of that.” 

“Um, Clyde, you dumb shit. Why would you think  _ that? _ ” Clyde doesn’t really think that, not completely. He’s pretty sure Craig’s stuck on Tweek but he’s got to try to steer him away. He can’t lose another friend. 

“Sometimes love is best expressed through hate.” Craig flips him off and yeah, that’s fair. 

“Try telling that to the male praying mantis, when his head gets ripped off.”

“What?” Clyde’s pretty sure it’s a bug Craig’s talking about so he rolls his eyes. “You gotta get out more.”

“I have been out more.”

“Not partying, unless there’s some kickass place you’re keeping from me. You’re not, are ya?” 

“No.” Craig answers simply. Clyde eyes him. He’s always pretty quiet about his life.

“What happened to your face?” Craig flinches a little and pulls out a CD. Clyde’s pretty sure he knows what happened but he always asks. 

“ _ Whitey Ford Sings the Blues _ ? Seriously?” Craig asks, sarcastically and Clyde shrugs. 

“Ay, don’t knock it.” 

“Do you have anything halfway decent?”

“Hey! I have incredible taste,” Clyde smacks his lips together. “Haven’t you seen my girlfriend?” Bebe is the only person that really makes sense anymore. She’s not just looks, but her smile is a place that Clyde could almost be honest with. She wants to play for an orchestra.

“She’s a little out of your league, isn’t she?” Craig points to his head. “Not all braindead up there.” Clyde grins. 

“Yeah, she is. She’s amazing. She plays  _ violin _ , Craig, she’s so fucking sophisticated.” 

“Is she going tonight?”

“No,” Clyde frowns. “Her parents won’t let her. But, Token will be there. Craig, come on, you used to go with us.” 

"I have things to do.”

“Like what?” Craig bites his lip. 

“History homework.” 

“Bullshit! I call bullshit.”

“‘S’not. It’s true. There’s a test on Tuesday. Tweek’s helping me.”

“Why?” Clyde’s mood dampens. He can’t even get his best friend to hang out with him anymore. 

“Because I’m failing, I want to graduate and he’s a genius.” Craig says, in his deadpan that only falters when he mentions Tweek. 

“He’s not right about everything. Just blow it off and drink with me, yeah? Please? I’ll get you a date, any asshole you want.” Craig cringes. 

“Dude, too much, dude,” He squeezes his eyes shut in some kind of embarrassment. Clyde snickers. “Bebe  _ is _ so far beyond you.” 

“I know,” Clyde agrees, in all seriousness. “I can’t drink this much alone. Don’t make me do this alone.” Clyde says, his voice letting on near the end.

“You fucking baby.” Craig says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, boo hoo,” Clyde fake cries. “I do need my bottle. Bro, come on, please?”

“No. I told Tweek I’d meet him.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“Well, you’re coming off like a prick, so won’t you knock it off?”

“Not until you come to your senses.” 

“Tweek had things to say about you, too.”

“What’d he say?” Clyde asks, clenching his jaw. His look would be intimidating to anyone except Craig, who knows him way too well. Craig just raises his eyebrows in some kind of look that really just says  _please._

“Nothing new. Just kid stuff, from when we were eight or nine and you bozos jumped off the roof to fly. You got a bad concussion. Can you even remember it?”

“We were going to the moon.” Clyde frowns. 

“Huh? I thought you two were just trying soar like Superman.”

“It wasn’t Superman. Superman’s dumb. We were trying to get to the moon.”

“Why?” Craig makes a face. Clyde shrugs, thinking about a past that still stings. 

“Tweek wanted to mine a piece of the moon and bring it back for you,” Clyde suddenly laughs, a sharp and pointed one at the memory. “Man, you were so fucking afraid of the dark,” Craig crosses his arms. Clyde’s laughter starts easing back into a line. “You were so afraid, you were just a wee little baby,” Clyde mocks fondly. “We,” Clyde starts, clenching his jaw again. “Both thought your dad was being unfair about taking that nightlight. Tweek was sure you could just keep the moon under your pillow and he wouldn't have to know.” Craig looks really touched for a moment and it’s always funny when he gets sentimental. Clyde feels uncomfortable when that happens. But soon he settles his face back into a look of slight annoyance and things are feeling near normal.

“I wasn’t afraid,” Craig says, a little grumpily and a little delayed. “Just  _ cautious _ ,” Clyde laughs at him, still mocking. Craig flips him off. “Oh, fuck you, too.”

“Craig, I don’t really think of you that way.” 

“Goddammit," Craig groans. "Why do you and Token  _ always  _ respond like that?”

“You coming out made the joke real easy. It added a new level.” 

“I think you guys just got lazy.”

“Maybe, but it’s still damn hilarious.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Craig grumbles. He checks the time. Clyde looks at him, somewhat impatiently. He just wants his friend to be around, is that too much to ask? A lot of things are changing. They might be going to different places next year. Who even knows where Bebe’s going to be? He just needs a friend, in case he feels like he could open up when he gets that bottle down, though he never does. 

“You really have somewhere to be?”

“Tweek’s waiting for me, probably.”

“Craig, he’s not the only one out there.”

“Um, kind of is, Clyde. He’s the only Tweek Tweak.”

“No, I mean, why him?”

“Because he’s smart and he’s going to help me pass history. What’s your damage?”

“You know what I mean. Why do you like  _ him _ ? There are loads of other guys.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Okay, sure, pal.” 

“No, really, Clyde, just,  _ jesus _ .” 

“ _ What _ ?” Clyde asks, with some annoyance.

“I missed him, is all. You and Token were so much closer, you know? You had sports. You still do. Tweek liked  _ books _ and space.” Clyde thinks about this for a minute and sighs. He supposes that for tonight, he can just let this go. Or try to. 

“I guess. Whatever. Wear a condom.” Clyde says, pouting a little as he makes his way around his room, picking up the CD Craig ridiculed him for. Craig rubs at his head, anxiously and it’s almost a habit he’s seemed to pick up from Tweek. Clyde furrows his brows at the thought.

“Sonnuvabitch.” Craig mutters, head down. He leaves Clyde alone, heading out the front door after mumbling an awkward goodbye. Clyde’s only alone ten minutes before he gets sick of himself and calls up Token. They’re not going for a couple hours but he figures he can just tag along with whatever chores Token needs to get done. Whatever he can do so he’s not alone, thumbing his scar and thinking about mars bars. 


	7. Wednesday Evening

“Nervous?” Token asks as they’re walking into the cafeteria. Tweek looks pissed.

“Why the f-fuck would you a-assume that?”

“Damn, you got a mouth on you.” Token says, whistling a little.

“What’s your fucking point?”

“Tweek, you gotta ground yourself when we’re in here, okay?” Token says, looking around. “Be more tolerable or else you’ll only have Craig as a friend and he’s a prick.”

“H-he’s not a prick. W-well,” Tweek thinks a little. “Y-yeah, maybe a l-little but…” Tweek trails off. Token smiles.

“Just messing with ya, man. Ready? Good to sit with us?” Tweek fiddles with his headphones. “It’ll be fine. Craig perks up like a little kid in a candy store when you’re around.”

“Wh-why?” Tweek asks, staring at his cassette player. Token shakes his head.

“Just sit down, Tweek. Watch his face, too. Look,” Token points to the table they’re headed for. It’s just Clyde and Craig sitting at it. Clyde’s looking at his food. Craig’s into some book and Tweek’s surprised that it’s the novel he told him to read. “Tweek, are you watching? Just look at his face,” Tweek grumbles a little at being told to do something he's _already_ doing but Token's head is in the right place, he guesses. Craig looks mildly upset or maybe just bored. His shoulders are hunched over and his eyes are narrowed into the book. It's like he's studying the goddamn text. It's a good book, though, it should relax him. “Let's go over, but keep watching,” They walk towards the table, Tweek still clicking on his Walkman, rewinding and fast forwarding things. Craig looks up at that sound and his shoulders relax. He brightens, almost literally, his face gets all flushed up. “Ladies.” Token greets. Craig nods at him with a grunt, but focuses in on Tweek. Tweek notices that Craig's all pink and a lot happier than when he was just reading alone. Huh. Maybe Craig _did_ actually miss him.  

“Cricket.” Tweek says, unblinkingly, looking straight into Craig’s eyes. Craig glances down at his book somewhat sheepishly and smiles to himself.

“Hey, buddy.” Craig settles, with a mutter. Token looks at the of them, smiling.

“Awh, cricket? You call him cricket? Shit, that’s hilarious,” Craig flips Token the bird. Token nudges Clyde as he sits down. “How come we never came up with cricket? We had years. So many bugs.”

“Knock it off.” Craig mutters.

“Take a seat, Tweek, eat with us, next to the queen bitch bee herself,” Token points to the chair across from him. It's next to Craig. Craig glares at Token, who just shrugs. Token looks over at Clyde. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.” Clyde says, unhappily. Tweek looks uncomfortable. “Aren’t you gonna sit, Tweek?” Clyde growls out. Tweek sits.

“Y-yeah, sorry, th-thought you were gonna k-kill me, is all.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Must be your brain lying to you. _Again_.” Tweek blinks.

“Yeah, m-must be just that.” Tweek answers with a lot of animosity. Token looks at them all. Craig seems super psyched that Tweek’s right there next to him, Clyde’s pissed at the whole world and Tweek’s just being a cocky bastard. Token grins, in an attempt to make amends.

“See, we’re all together again.” He says, in a voice that lacks the excitement he wished for. “Whoo.”

“Not for long. I gotta see Bebe. ‘m sure Tweek’s got some more theories on JFK’s assassination to write up on. Who was it, a flying spaghetti monster? Lizard people?” Clyde says, spitefully, because he can’t really help himself. “ _Aliens_?” He adds, for the kick. Tweek stares Clyde down from across the table. He’s chewing down on his lip so hard that Craig can see blood peeking out from behind his teeth. Tweek picks at his wrist. Craig frowns.

“Why are you being such a dickhead, Clyde?” Craig asks.

“I’m not! Look at him," Tweek flinches, but looks pissed off himself. "What’s _your_ problem?”

“I haven’t got a problem, besides you being an asshole. Can’t you just leave him alone?”

“Dude,” Clyde says, with a lot of sympathy and Craig’s getting sick of seeing that face, the face that says he doesn't know shit. “He’s not the same kid. Let it go, you can’t help his crazy ass.” Clyde says, right in front of Tweek. Tweek starts playing with his cassette recorder, gets up and walks over to Clyde. His mouth is tight, determined and he’s not paying attention to anyone besides Clyde. He grabs Clyde’s left arm easily but with surprising amount of force. He pulls back Clyde’s sleeve and his own, putting them next to each other on the table. Two very similar scars face them both, one on each of their wrists.

“I’m n-not,” Tweek flinches, staring Clyde directly in the eyes. Clyde’s fuming and trying to move his hand. Tweek holds onto it. “I am _not_ fucking crazy.” Tweek keeps the stare as he lets go and Clyde pulls back. “Th-this, this is what happened.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“St-stop calling me nuts, I’m n-not nuts!” Tweek shouts and they’ve now grown a number of eavesdroppers.

“Yes, you are, Tweek. Nothing happened.”

“It w-was October! They gave us _M_ _ars Bars_ and you, y-you said it was too c-cold for the swingset and th-that’s when dragon m---” Clyde has a mean left hook and Tweek finds that out in the realest way. Everything’s a blur after that. Tweek knows he got a number of really good punches in, though, before he blacked out.

When he comes to, he’s nearly sure he’s alone somewhere. It’s outside. It’s fresh. Is it the dugouts that he’s all sprawled out on, like a corpse? His Walkman’s broken, right next to him and that’s probably the worst news he’s had in awhile.

He doesn’t see Clyde and he doesn’t hear any screaming. No neon. He doesn’t see _anyone_ . He feels for his pulse and almost thinks _goddammit_ when he finds it pumping just as normal as can be. He doesn’t hear screaming but soft whistling. A beautiful little tune. The sky’s just turned the evening into a blue coat of snowy ground. He touches his face and hisses. He picks at his cassette player, turning it around in his hands until the pretty little pieces that should be silent start to chime. The whistling stops. Tweek sits upright fast, and gets a terrible headache.

“Ow.”

“Stings like a wasp, doesn’t it?” Craig’s voice sounds and Tweek near jumps.

“Gah, st-stop doing that! Jesus Christ!”

“Are _you_ religious, Tweek?” Craig asks, sitting next to him and yeah, he was right. They’re by the dugout in the old baseball park.

“F-funny.” Tweek frowns. He looks for his watch, panicking when it’s not on his wrist. Craig pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Tweek. “Oh no!” He exclaims, cradling the broken watch. It would almost be a humorous thing to say if he wasn’t sporting that awful shiner and he didn’t have all that dried blood on his face. Tweek rubs at the watch in his hand, staring at the busted Waltham. He tries winding it up but the clockspring must’ve gone. He frowns. “Wh-what happened?”

“ _You_ got freaky.”

“O-oh. Shit.” Tweek slumps against the dugout. He bites his lip and immediately regrets it, because the thing starts pouring out blood. “F-fuck me.”

“Not when you look like _that._ ” Craig blurts, meaning it as a joke but he also finds himself regretting literally everything. Tweek furrows his brows but soon realizes that all expressions he make causes some kind of awful ache in a newly discovered region of his face.

“U-uh, um,” He stutters instead, with the blood coming down awfully. Craig seems to ruin nearly every semi-comfortable moment around this guy. Craig taps his feet, pulling out a cafeteria napkin. He hands it to Tweek, who takes it and shoves it over the bloody spots of his face. “Thanks. Wh-what time is it?” Tweek asks, attempting to be normal, like his face doesn’t resemble a piece of pizza.

“Almost six.”

“Shit, r-really? How'd it get so late? How'd I get here?"

"Token helped. We ended it before the principal found out. No teacher even saw. Clyde's actually," Craig frowns. "He's not in trouble either. So don't worry about your work."

"Oh," Tweek feels really warmed by the thought and he's not used to that feeling either. Friendship is something. "Why a-are we _here?_ ”

“Well, Tweek,” Craig begins. “Some people believe in evolution---” Tweek cringes.

“You goddamn dork, n-no. I mean, how come w-we’re at the dugout?”

“Huh, well. That’s simple enough. Basically, you and Clyde have some cultish scars and Clyde punched you because he won’t...um...rejoin the cult? Is that what happened? It’s not very simple, actually, Tweek. How about you explain this to me.”

“N-no.” Tweek says, pretty evenly and that’s that. The wind sings. Craig points to the Walkman.

“I think I could fix it for you if you, uh, want.”

“R-really?” Tweek asks, surprised. “You c-could?”

“Yeah, the watch, too,” Craig nearly croaks at the look of pure hope Tweek’s giving him. “I was in the robotics club for a while.”

“Of c-course you were,” Tweek smiles and makes a pained face. “ _Fuck_.” He drags out the word and Craig laughs a little. “M-my pain is funny to you?” Tweek says, with a raised eyebrow. Craig shakes his head.

“Jesus, no. Just the way you talk.”

“M-my stutter is f-funny? Fuck y-you!” Tweek says, starting to get up. Craig sighs.

“No, shit, don’t leave, you hothead. The way you swear. It’s not funny, it just makes me smile.” Tweek looks him up and down, looking for lies but Craig’s actually being honest.

“Y-you’re, wh-what?” Tweek asks, incomprehensibly.

“Do you want to come over for a bit? You know, the train still goes by my house.” Tweek perks up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, every night---” Craig begins.

“-- _t_ _wice_ a night.” Tweek corrects, brightening.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Craig looks momentarily dazed. He shakes it out of his system. “You can wash all that gunk off your face. We can try to pretend that nothing happened.”

“J-just, please tell me C-Clyde got s-some of this, too. P-please tell me I’m n-not the only one h-here who f-feels this shitty.”

“You got him good in spots,” Craig says, upping the truth a bit. He still admires the determination and willpower Tweek harnessed there. It was impressive. “You really didn’t stop until you were on the ground. Like a beetle.” Tweek flops a little too the side as he sighs, making an odd little noise. _Like a beetle_ , Craig thinks to himself, laughing. 

“H-how fast did I k-kiss the floor?” Tweek asks. Craig never wished he was a floor before Tweek said it like _that_.

“You had about…” Craig thinks. “Two minutes? Give or take.”

“Sh-shit, that’s not m-much at all.”

“Well, Clyde works out a lot. ‘Sides, what do you care? You got some reputation to save?”

“N-no,” Tweek snorts. “Look at m-me, cricket.” Tweek gestures to himself dejectedly, his old shredded up canvas pants, the oversized army parka, his wild hair and now, this all bruised up face he sports. He twitches, for good measure. Craig’s lungs take a break.

“I _have_ been,” Craig says, seriously, and wow, he’s very good with feelings. That doesn’t sound creepy at all. Tweek blinks up at him, squinting a little. “I’m not stalking you,” He adds, like that makes it all better. “Do you want to come over?” What a great time to ask that again. Tweek looks exhausted, nearly too exhausted to be as shocked by anything Craig says. Either that, or he’s getting used to Craig being so awkward.

“Y-you know, if y-you didn’t have th-that clueless puppy f-face a-all the time, I’d s-say you were a creep,” Tweek states, slowly. Craig looks at him hopelessly and oh, that’s probably the look Tweek’s ragging him for. Yep, to prove it, Tweek giggles. “Th-that, dude.”

“Oops?”

“‘S’fine, cricket. O-okay,” Tweek adds on, hesitantly. “Y-yeah, I c-can visit. But I can’t st-stay long.” Craig grins.

“Really? Gnarly.”

“Gnarly? That w-warrants a gnarly?” Tweek asks, surprised.

“Absolutely a  _gnarly_.” Tweek shrugs and gets up. He stumbles a little but soon walks up straight. “You good, buddy?”

“‘M okay now.” Tweek says, looking over at Craig. He frowns when feelings he doesn’t totally understand say hello to his stomach. It only happens around little things, like when Craig calls him his buddy or he says something softly and doesn’t treat Tweek like he’s psychotic. That’s a big thing, actually. He spews all those weird facts, too. That gets him the most, how Craig lights up when he tells Tweek something fucking bizarre that might be good nightmare material but Tweek’s okay with it when Craig says it. His voice is easygoing and damn if it isn’t winsome. Winsome? Tweek's used to thinking of violins and cellos as winsome. Not really people. Never people. He tries not to listen to other people's voices but _Craig's_ is so honeyed and mellow, especially when he's a sarcastic ass. Or when he fumbles over his words and Tweek really finds that comforting, like he could wait around patiently, as long as necessary, just to get Craig to finish his stupid sentence. Craig looks at him for a moment now, puppy faced with those eyes and wait, _w_ _hoa_ , is this what a revelation's supposed to feel like?

Gnarly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i need to do homework goodnight friends! thanks for reading!!! i totally appreciate comments, especially with something you hate or dig about this story so far because i literally have no where to go and they help me choose the way i take it. <3


	8. Friday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on a break now!!! so i will hopefully finish this story in a few days!! i really didn't mean to make it this long lol i never thought i would do this but i'm kind of committed to finishing this weirdass story?? also, thank you so much for all the comments!!! as always, i really appreciate hearing your thoughts because it does kind of guide me. 
> 
> also, the next chapter might be posted tonight too and there's alcohol sooooo you know what that means for the emotionally useless ;) 
> 
> oh also this chapter has some ghostie ghost stuff. :3

Tweek doesn't pay attention to voices.

The river’s cold. Tweek’s not freezing. There was a communist buried on a yesterday, five years ago. Gambler. A meth head, too.

His dad used to talk to him more.

The river’s cold.

“H-hey.” Tweek mutters to an old citronella candle. “Just s-say something.” He goes further into the water, waist high. He frowns. “N-nothing?” The wind answers hastily and Tweek feels broke. Maybe the doctors and nurses and _Clyde_ are right.

When did he see those flashes of bleak color first? When did the whistle get replaced by silence? What’s happened to the ocean? How come no one speaks English and the only thing he can understand is in an old textbook about the Bolsheviks? How come dragon man won’t come around anymore? What stopped him? What stopped that hand? What happened to the fast cars? All the men inside who _loved_ to hear his mother’s pretty voice, singing and ringing and shrieking and, and ----

Maybe he is crazy.

“You c-could, could say something. I know you’re here.” Tweek states, louder this time and he feels the wind blow over his eyelids. “Th-that’s not saying anything.” He sighs. The candle flicks red and white, blue. “What?” Tweek asks. The candle flicks again. Tweek walks deep in the water until his collar bone feels the river. He has to hold the candle high to watch the light and his head arches back. “C-course I’d visit you. I’m n-not an asshole.” The light moves and sways. “S-sorry, I d-didn’t mean to swear,” Tweek says, sheepishly. “A-are you, y-you in trouble?” The candle moves wildly and goes out. “N-no, no, no,” Tweek mutters and steps further into the water, his hands flailing. “No, c-come b-back, god dammit! G-get back here!” The candle falls into water. “Agh, sh-shit, shit, shit!” He’s nearly swimming, but looks like he’s drowning, when Craig happens upon him.

“Tweek?” Craig asks, confused as he steps out over the bay. “Tweek, what the hell are you doing?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Tweek’s repeating, panicking and looking wild-eyed for the candle that’s slipped deep into the river. He hasn’t even registered Craig’s presence. “Fuck, fuck.” It’s November when Tweek goes under the water and makes little sound. Craig can’t see the kid anymore and the river’s practically frozen. Craig doesn’t hesitate jumping in to pull Tweek out. It’s like someone is freezing his veins. The cold water shocks and Craig hisses, watching his breath float away foggy as he swims towards the area he last saw Tweek in. He dives way under and _fuck that’s brutal_ , searches for his old friend. He comes across the rocks before he feels Tweek’s sweatshirt, flowing oddly with the current. Craig latches onto it and pulls Tweek up. Tweek flails and fights against him but Craig manages to get him out of the river and onto the bay. Craig drops to the dirt, after releasing his hold on Tweek. He looks at the guy, still feeling the rush of winter swimming, something he's never even considered. Tweek’s clutching onto this little candle desperately and he’s not opening his eyes. They’re squinted shut like he’s in pain and he’s coughing up a storm.

“Tweek, Tweek, what the _fuck_?” Craig asks, out of breath. Tweek rolls the candle in his hands, which are dripping wet and greyed with sandy water.

“Forty seven, forty seven, big river.” Tweek mutters, turning the candle.

“Tweek. The fuck.”  

“River, forty seven. Three of a kind.”

“Hey, buddy. 'm right here.” Craig frowns and waves his hand, tries to get Tweek to recognize his face, but Tweek’s just gone kooky. Now Craig’s cold. And soaked.

“Forty seven.” Tweek says, unregistering Craig.

“Yeah, I know, forty seven,” Craig rolls his eyes. “Forty seven what?”

“Big river. Forty seven.”

“Good observation. It is a big river. What were you doing in it?” Tweek blinks his eyes open and looks at Craig like he’s surprised to see him.

“ _Gah_!” He jumps back. He takes in Craig’s sopping wet attire.

“Hi, Tweek.” Craig waves barely a gesture, slightly uncomfortably. Tweek’s eyes are wide, growing wider and he’s still tightly holding onto that candle.

“What the h-hell happened to you!?”

“You seriously have no clue?” Tweek shakes his head violently. “Look at your clothes.” Tweek looks down and rubs viciously at his shirt, which is drenched, dirty with mud. He shakes and Craig’s not sure if it’s because the cold or the mood.

“Damn, f-fuck,” Tweek whistles. “Y-you, you know I don’t really get what’s going on.”

“That makes two of us. You were drowning.”

“I, I find th-that hard to believe. I c-can swim.” Tweek says suspiciously.

“Okay, I just decided to go for a dunk then.”

“R-really?! Dumbass. It’s almost D-December. Y-you could g-get hypothermia and _die!_ ” Craig looks at Tweek like he’s the dullest piece of wood he’s ever met. A pretty and wet piece of wood, but still. Talking to him right now feels like that.

“No, I didn’t go for some fucking _joyful_ swim, Tweek. I was being sarcastic. You looked like you were drowning. I jumped in to keep you from dying.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Tweek slumps. “Wasn’t th-that, _ngh_ , fucking chivalrous of you.”

“Uhm, whoa. Alright, asshole,” Craig says slowly. He shifts. “Besides, you’d still be able to talk to me if I did die. Wouldn’t be a big deal to you if I caught anything they couldn’t fix.” He says, after a beat.

“H-huh?” Tweek furrows his brows. “Wh-what, what do you mean?”

“Your little ghostie friends over there in the graveyard. I’d probably become one of them.” Craig gestures offhandedly to the cemetery up the hill and Tweek looks back, twitching.

“Oh, oh.” Tweek bites his lip and adjusts his hold on the candle. “Oh. R-right.” He repeats and Craig feels the cold now more than ever.

“So, is this the kind of stuff you did to end up in the hospital?” Tweek raises his eyebrows. “Ah, fuck, fuck, was that offensive? I’m sorry.” Craig adds, sincerely.

“I-I’m not crazy, I’m not.” Tweek says, pushing at the muddy cold clay.

“You’re a little bit crazy. You’re swimming in the river behind a cemetery on a Friday night in the middle of _November_ . That’s abnormal. What, you think everyone else in our class is off doing this spooky shit, too? Hell no, they’re abusing the bottle and getting pregnant. You’re bizarre, buddy,” Tweek flinches and wrings his hands together. He looks very upset. “You’re really pleasing to be around, though. Something about you. I have no clue what it is.” Craig says, hand holding his chin up, before he realizes he’s probably oversharing again. Tweek looks at him oddly, like he's really analyzing everything about him and Craig feels self-conscious. Craig’s now completely aware of his own crooked teeth, the invasive acne that makes his face look like a map of all the light pollution and that awkward notch in his nose from when he broke it back in middle school. It never healed correctly and now Craig can’t stop thinking about how wrong he knows he must look from every possible side. Tweek taps his fingers, still looking at Craig. “ _What_?” Craig growls, glowering a little. Probably overcompensating.

“I, I, _oh God_ , okay.” Tweek mutters out, wringing his hands together and shaking. Craig’s pretty sure he’s shaking, too, though. That river was damn cold.

“Are you cold?”

“N-no.” Tweek answers honestly. “Are you?”

“Hell yes,” Craig widens his eyes. “I can’t believe you aren’t. You’re like the Mountain Stone Weta.”

“Wh-what’s that?”

“A bug in New Zealand that can survive being frozen for weeks on end. It thaws itself out and everything."

“O-oh.” Tweek says, slowly. Craig looks at him tight-lipped.

“You say that a lot.”

“W-well, you t-talk too much.” Tweek snaps, taken aback.

“I only really talk this much because you let me tell you about bugs. No one likes bugs.”

“Rosa was a gardener. She, sh-she knows a lot about bugs.”

“Who’s Rosa?”

“Sh-she lives up th-there now.” Tweek points to the cemetery. Craig frowns a little.

“How come you barely hang out with us living people? Are we too loud for you or something?” Tweek smiles crookedly and Craig’s alarmed by it enough that it seems to warm up his ribcage. It’s a soothing sight. Craig feels like he’s witnessing something that rarely happens. It’s a shiny and comforting place, even with the wind blowing and the temperature frosting up his soaked clothes. It’s this secret.

“Yeah, C-Craig, I’m a senior after all. I need peace f-from all you f-fucking mouth breathers.”

“I feel like you’re joking.” Tweek laughs and plucks some stones out of the bay.

“Guess it wasn’t f-funny.”

“No, it was funny.”

“Th-thank you.” Tweek says seriously.

“Buddy, if something’s funny, you don’t need to thank everyone who thinks so.”

“N-no, no, _Jesus_ , not about th-that --- _shit_ , sh-shit,” Tweek sighs, all broken up. “I, uh, th-thanks for p-pulling me o-out of the river.” Tweek adds, rubbing at his neck.

“You don’t need to thank me. You think I would _let_ you drown? 'Sides, I don’t know where you learned to swim but sinking isn’t part of it.” Craig thinks Tweek might get pissy but instead he offers a small, wry smile. Tweek nods his head a little.

“M-maybe I c-can explain it to you s-someday.”

“I’d,” Craig begins, trying not to sound to overeager. “That’d be neato.” Craig stutters out. He frowns at his awkwardness. His words don’t belong in this space. Tweek stares at him like he’s crunching numbers and trying to calculate something. Craig pulls on the strings of his hat and wrings them self consciously. Water drips. Everything about this situation is new to him. He’s not used to being this invested in another person. He’s not used to thinking about death. He’s not used to being awkward and fumbling. Nor is he used to swimming in the winter, but whatever. Tweek’s still staring. “What?” He finally asks, hoping his monotone isn’t wavering and giving him up.

“N-nothing!” Tweek shouts. He paces and makes his way over to Craig, after some time spent going in circles. He looks like he’s debating with his own head. The wind blows, whistles against the trees. Craig hunches over, in a futile attempt to recover some kind of internal body heat before his organs freeze over completely. Tweek makes an odd little noise.

“What?” Craig asks again. Tweek reaches his hand out, moving it back and forth towards Craig’s head until he anxiously yanks off Craig’s hat and walks quickly away with it. Craig leaps up. “The hell? Give that back. How come you’re always taking my hat?” Craig pushes back his hair, which is still dripping water and he knows it looks ridiculous. Tweek looks into his eyes, holding the hat, with a pensive face. “Tweek, come on, give it back.” Tweek shakes off the odd face he was giving Craig and holds the hat away.

“Hush,” Tweek settles with, lowly and eerily. He picks up the candle and stares into it. “D-don’t tell anyone, o-okay?”

“Don’t tell anyone _what_ exactly? That you stole my hat after I saved your dying ass?” Tweek rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away from the candle. “You need a lighter?”

“No, I g-got it.” The candle lights up without any lighter or match, just Tweek’s intense glare. Craig feels like he’s in some crappy children’s movie from the 90s. About ghosts or witches or some shit except this is _very_ real. Craig didn’t notice until Tweek did this magic trick that reality is fucking terrifying. Tweek mutters something incoherent, that sounds strangely encouraging. He waves the candle around the hat and faces Craig. He places it back on Craig’s head. Craig reddens, not just ‘cause Tweek was just _that_ close to him but also ‘cause the hat itself is incredibly warm. With a couple more quick movements with the candle, Tweek motions over Craig like a priest, murmuring until Craig’s whole body is warm and his clothes are bone dry.

“Dude,” Craig says slowly, amazed. “ _Dude_.”

“The fuck, I, I, know,” Tweek says nervously. He paces again, nearly pulling at his hair. “I, I, y-you were s-so c-cold and shit --- _I’m f-fucking w-weird,_ I, I know! B-but, d-don’t t-tell, shit,” Tweek squints his eyes shut. “D-don’t tell th-those guys, y-yeah? Clyde, he, h-he already lies a-about me.” Tweek pleads a little. Craig just stares, attempting to process the fact that it seems like magic is real and his childhood friend controls some of it.

“You are the coolest person I’ve ever met,” Craig blurts. He takes off his hat and places it on Tweek’s head, who gazes on, stunned. He nearly always looks dazed, though. “You must be cold, too.” Craig says, rather matter-of-fact, when Tweek seems to be questioning him.

“Oh.” Tweek says, dopily. Craig grins.

“Yeah, _oh._ Are you a magician? Are you a witch? How the hell did you do that?” Tweek laughs, quietly.

“I, n-no. Jeez, witches, th-they aren’t r-real, Craig. I h-have friends on th-the other side. S’all.” Tweek starts humming.

“So _ghosts_ warmed me up?” Tweek thinks about this for a minute, still dripping wet. "

“I, I m-mean, if you say it l-like _that_ , it sounds perverse.”

“How so?”

“I, th-things like that a-aren’t my expertise.” Tweek whispers and fuck those fluttering moths, seriously.

“Well, what is your expertise? Besides, y’know, this,” Craig gestures all around them. "I mean, _whoa_. Holy shit, Tweek!" Craig laughs, kind of manically. "Holy fuck, you're incredible." Tweek rubs at his ear, underneath Craig's hat, and ducks. 

“A-ah, uhm, okay," He half mutters. "I l-like reindeer,” Tweek says. Craig laughs at the randomness. “They’re cool, d-dude! Some of them, th-they’ve got these knees that click so they can listen f-for each other in a bl-blizzard, y’know, to, uh, t-to stay together,” Craig follows him, totally and completely enamored. “I, I wish h-humans did that. I wish h-humans st-stayed together through st-storms.” Tweek adds, a little bit darkly. Craig isn’t sure what to say so he just hums it off. He just wants to keep talking to this guy because, wow,  _wow_ , he didn't think Tweek could get any cooler. Well, he probably can't, physically, anyway.

“Which do you like more; Santa’s or the Canadian ones?” 

“D-doesn’t matter. I, I, uhm, I d-do like taigas th-though. I h-hate hights,” Tweek bites his lip. “Canada, definitely Canadian.”

“What’s a taiga again? I forget.”

“A, uh, snow forest, cricket.”

“You know, crickets are found on every continent _except_ antarctica.” Craig says, like this is really important information that Tweek should know. Tweek blinks.

“No shit?” Tweek asks, searching for a proper response that he can’t find. Craig nods.

“No shit. They eat rotting fruit, too. Well, they eat _anything,_ actually. They even turn on each other sometimes, if they run out of food.” Wow, Tucker, what a way to ruin the only nickname you’ve had ever. Go ahead and call yourself a cannibal in front of the one person you’ve ever been into, the only person that you can tolerate.

“Sh-shit, wh-what the _fuck_ , dude?!” Tweek screeches. "Th-that's horrible!"

“They won’t eat each other unless they’re desperate, Tweek. Don’t worry,” Craig assures, in his stupid monotone. Tweek looks at him with a disturbed face. “I’m not hungry. I don’t eat other animals.” Tweek lightens a little.

“You’re a v-vegetarian?” Tweek asks, biting his lip.

“I’m not a serial killer. I only eat eggs,” Craig says. Tweek looks at him oddly again. Craig cringes at himself. “I mean, the only animal product I eat is eggs. Chicken eggs. Ah, _fuck_. They’re from my aunt’s house. She has pet hens. I don’t know why I’m tell you this.” Tweek smiles, it seems almost nervous. 

“I don’t eat animals either, man. O-or dairy, or _e-eggs_ ,” Tweek says, kind of fumbling a bit, but eyeing Craig. “Pigs are s-so smart.”

“Really?” Craig grins. He doesn't smile this much. “Shit, really? You don’t?” Tweek nods, smiling back wider. It’s that toothy one.

“Yeah, I m-mean, ghosts, y’know. Knowing some of that afterlife shit p-puts a perspective,” Tweek says, carefully. “W-we gotta find you a different bug. A-aren’t there herbivores?”

“What do you mean?” Tweek rolls his eyes.

“Craig,” Tweek says. Craig had forgotten what it sounded like when Tweek spoke his real name. His stomach, though, that didn't forget. “What’s y-your favorite bug?”

“I don’t have a favorite.”

“W-well, I’m not gonna call you butterfly.” Craig scrunches his nose up at the thought.

“Hey, you wanna know how to attract a butterfly? Get sweaty.”

“ _What_?”

“They like salt, Tweek. That’s all, I mean, when people sweat, they exude sodium and butterflies like it,” Craig tries to explain the logics behind this step. “So you should try to, um, get sweaty if you want to see butterflies, they could stop by,” Tweek looks at him wildly and seriously, how did Craig assume this would go? “I, um, no homo.” Craig defends, pretty pathetically.

“Why do you k-keep _saying_ th-that?” Tweek asks, seriously curious.

“Um, shit, I don’t know? It’s funny?” Craig rubs at his neck and gives Tweek a onceover. He’s acting like it’s summer.

“N-not, not really. It's not funny at all,” Tweek says, amused. “Do m-moths, are moths herbivores?”

“Usually. Yeah. Almost exclusively.”

“H-how about I call you mothra?”

“Mothra? You’ve seen _Mothra_?” Craig asks, taken aback.

“Y-yeah, it’s bizarre.”

“You’re bizarre.”

“No, you are. Look at you.”

“Look at me? Look at _you_ . You sure don’t get cold easy.” Craig mumbles, a little worried that Tweek doesn’t seem to be feeling _anything_.

“I fucking hate the summer.” Tweek admits, with some pride.

“How can you hate summer?”

“Y-you _like_ it?” Tweek asks, incredulously.

“Yeah. You know, I’m into bugs.”

“Oh, _right_. Right.” Tweek shudders.

“Plus, I never _have_ to go home.”

“Don’t y-your parents l-like you to, th-though?” Tweek bites his lip and they’re approaching the headstone they used to call Mars as kids. He sits down against the it. Craig faces him, leaning against a different stone. “M-mine did. It n-never r-really mattered, though. I d-didn’t l-leave the h-house for a few years. After, y’know, I g-got _abducted_.”

“You got _kidnapped_? Jesus, dude,” Craig croaks, full of emotion that surprises Tweek. He didn’t mean to say it aloud. “How? When?”

“Uhm, uh.” Tweek, nervous at his hands, starts playing with a rubberband on his wrist, snapping it. The sound causes Craig to cringe. Craig reaches for the rubberband.

“Please stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Craig pulls the rubber band off Tweek’s barely shaking and still wet wrist. He’s dead cold. Craig feels goosebumps and he draws back his hand quickly. He grabs a deck of cards out of his coat pocket. Tweek looks at him suspiciously. “You can, uh, play with these instead.”

“I’m o-okay,” Tweek breathes heavily, but takes the cards anyway. “O-okay, why do you have these with you? A-are _you_ a magician?” Craig reddens.

“No.”

“W-wait, wait,” Tweek shuffles the cards with some expert ease that Craig didn’t realize he was capable of. “Wh-why are _you_ in the cemetery, on a Friday n-night with a d-deck of cards? Isn’t, isn’t _th-that_ a little k-kooky?”

“No.” Craig shifts awkwardly. Tweek raises his eyebrow. He snorts. Craig crosses his arms.

“O-okay, I get it, y-you’re, you’re excluded. You’re above social law.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” Craig says, hastily. Hoping to move past the fact that he was looking for Tweek. That this is probably the seventh night he’s walked the cemetery, hoping to spot Tweek doing spooky shit like that time he first talked to him almost a month ago. They've become somewhat close again, but Tweek still won't let Craig see him outside of school, it seems. 

“Y-you’re the weird one,” Tweek shakes his head. “You g-got charm and, and friends and, shit, those _dimples_ ,” Tweek flicks his wrist and starts dealing the cards. Craig chokes on his own spit, barely sure he heard Tweek right. He coughs a little, delightful hacking noise. Smooth. “B-bet you could be off with anyone, d-doing illegal things. You know. Clyde’s _f-festivities_.”

“I,” Craig frowns. “Don’t know what got into him.”

“You d-don’t have to know _e-everything_.”

“Yes, I do,” Craig says, very sure of himself. “I have to know everything so I can be prepared,” Tweek flinches a little. “Oh, that reminds me.” Tweek peers on, sem-curious, as Craig gets up, reaching around Mars.

“Uhm, I,” Tweek shakes. “Wh-what’re you doing?” Craig is behind the headstone now and Tweek kneels to peek over. Craig pulls out something in a bag and hands it off to Tweek.

“I didn’t know when I’d see you again so I, uh, put that here. It’s safer.”

“W-wait, where _w-were_ you Thursday?” Tweek asks, incredulously taking the bag. He holds onto it, waiting for Craig to answer. Craig shakes his head.

“Just open the bag, dude.” Tweek raises his eyebrows.

“N-nuh uh, not until you tell me wh-what's up.” Craig rolls his eyes.

“God, you’re fucking stubborn.”

“Well, wh-where were you?”

“Why do you care? It was just one day.”

“I, I d-don’t know.” Tweek flinches to the side and Craig shrugs.

“I was in the hospital. Can you open the bag already?”

“Why were you in th-the, uh, the hospital? O-oh, god, a-are you s-sick?” Tweek asks, with concern that Craig feels is kind of wasted on his useless ass.

“Just open the bag, Tweek.”

“Did you get hit by a b-baseball bat again? Are th-they j-just, walking around h-hitting people by themselves? All alone?” Craig shakes his head, chuckling.

“Yeah, yeah, someone should really do a PSA about demonic baseball bats,” Craig says sarcastically. Tweek frowns. “Please just open it? Before I forget.”

“Fine.” Tweek pulls open the bag and finds an old tape player in there, with headphones and even a couple tapes. He looks at it confused, ‘cause it’s honestly a lot nicer than his was.

“I couldn’t fix yours yet. I'm still working on it, but you can keep this one. I’ll never use it.”

“A-are y-you, are you sure? R-really?” Tweek asks, with a small smile.

“Yeah, definitely. My grandfather held onto a helluva lot of electrical stuff. Just cleaning house.”

“W-whoa,” Tweek smiles again, only large. “Whoa, th-this is, this is _awesome_. Thanks, mothra.” Tweek scrunches his nose. “I like cricket better.”

“Well, if it helps, they’re only cannibalistic when they’re forced to. Some humans are like that, too. It doesn’t mean _all_ crickets are. The probability of it happening only grows when they lack adequate food for a long time.”

“Gee, th-thanks, Craig. That makes me f-feel good about s-society.” Tweek shuffles the cards again. Craig watches on, really impressed.

“Wanna play a game?”

“I don’t know many games.”

“You shuffled like a pro. Where’d you learn that?” Tweek grins. Craig’s heart flutters like a bouquet of moths around a street lamp.

“Casino.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. M-my parents had friends i-in high places.”

“Wow, really?” Craig breathes. Tweek nods, rather matter of fact. “Well, then, there’s gotta be _something_ we can play.” Tweek shrugs.

“J-just life.”

“Funny.”

“I d-didn’t think so.”

“I was being sarcastic. You gotta get better at picking up on it.”

“Oh.”

“Come on, we used to play a lot. You _must_ remember that.”

“I,” Tweek smiles a small, nice mirror of the past and Craig feels bright. “Y-you were spaceman, right? A-and, I w-was ground control. I, I liked th-that.” He suddenly grimaces. “We m-met aliens.”

“We were kings.”

“Sure,” Tweek says, disbelieving Craig. The wind talks over their breathing. He looks up at the sky. “I have to go. Th-thank you f-for, um, this.” He places the cards in Craig’s hands, gingerly. Ghostly. He picks up the tape player, shaking his head.

“Wait, really? Where?” Craig jumps to catch up with Tweek. “You should change. You’re still all wet.” Tweek takes off Craig’s hat and holds it out to him.

“I’m f-fine now.”

“Keep it for now,” Craig says, alarming himself. He feels really uncomfortable without that hat actually. He brushes it off. Tweek looks at him with those stormy eyes and Craig’s pulse wavers. “Least I can offer you.” He adds, quietly.

“Oh, u-uhm, I,” Tweek looks at the hat and turns it in his hands. “I m-might lose it.”

“I trust you. Give it back to me tomorrow night. I can meet you at your house. We can walk over together.”

“F-for _what_?” Tweek looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Oh, did I not tell you? Token’s bash. It’s at some barn in the middle of god-knows-where.” Tweek rolls his eyes.

"N-no, you didn't tell m-me!"

“We can leave early. I just want to see you someplace,” Craig looks around. “Warm.”

“Oh.” Tweek says, still dumbfounded. He ruffles Tweek’s hair and smiles, though his hand comes back all wet and cold.

“Jeez, dude, you should do your ghost shit on yourself. Or wear my, um, hat," Craig looks confused at his own words. Tweek raises an eyebrow. "I---" Tweek puts a hand, a cold dead feeling hand, over Craig's cheek and Craig needs to stop breathing at this moment, lest his heart turn into a bomb. 

"Lemme g-guess," Tweek puts air quotes around his words, hand leaving Craig's cheek briefly before he returns it with a jittering tap. " _N-no,_  ngh, h-homo?" 

"I’m going to be at your house by seven.” Craig cringes a little at his croaking voice. He's not good with words.

“You don’t know where I live.” Tweek smiles, hand still resting on Craig's cheek and damn, it's cold.

“Where _is_ your house?” 

“I d-don't do crowds, cricket.” Tweek mumbles, patting Craig's cheek before heads away from Craig. Craig watches until he can barely see Tweek's figure. He does spot that little twitch, his head flicking to the side and the feeling it gives him is rather nostalgic. He starts in the opposite direction, looking at the water once more before heading home.


	9. Saturday Night

The cassette would be obvious, to anyone besides Tweek. He’s taught himself a lot of fancy words, with big books and histories that no one cares about. Like the first American train robbery concocted up by these brothers in Wyoming, who _ran_ their own destitute, depraved town after returning from the Civil War. He reads way too much, he squints out nonsense between neon signs and still can’t make sense of the tape that’s playing in the Walkman Craig gave him.

Did he do it on purpose? It’s a weird cocktail of new wave, rock and a lot of things that Tweek can’t really place. He’s not good with the genres. He thought he could only understand violins.

The tape’s interesting, there are some really beautiful songs, some ridiculous ones and some that give him feelings he can’t place in words. He still doesn’t understand why Craig would give him this and he feels more frustrated by it than happy. Maybe it's a mixture of both.

What is Craig trying to say? Does he listen to the radio waves, too, and can he only speak English? Does he understand that sounds come in other flavors, in other kinds of cursive and written hand, in bound spines no one can reanimate? Does Craig not understand how to speak properly? Does he need help? Does he mean to say anything? Did his fingers wind the tape backwards to record it? It looks fresh, the sharpie script. Were there others around or was he alone? Did he stay up all night? Did he get it right on the first try? Is Tweek over analyzing this?

Probably.

They see each other nearly everyday now but Tweek knows that graduation is coming. He’s going to get out okay, thanks to Craig, who forced Tweek to explain to him the Vietnam War’s origins (or, as Tweek prefers, why it was a total batshit ‘military intervention’) and in turn, they both got pretty good grades on the history test. Craig saved Tweek’s ass by making science somewhat comprehensible. Tweek’s going to graduate but that’s probably going to be his sole achievement in life. Craig will do sweet things, Tweek bets that voice sounds even better when he sings.

Tweek sees Token, if he’s not with Clyde. There’s a lot of rage still. Token’s fair. Clyde’s just processing, that’s all. Tweek would like to put it to rest but hell, he has so many ghosts following him already, he’s thinking maybe nothing ever rests. Life's exhausting and it doesn't appear to be any less so once you die. 

Tweek’s sitting in a room he can barely place, trying to remember how Texas Holdem goes. Flop, turn and _then_ river. Yeah. That’s right. _Don’t splash the pot, don’t be like your dad._ _Line up nice, easily and stack them. Your OCD is good for something other than running bathroom stalls four steps over, three times a day to keep the hot water at bay_. There are a number of them, people, now surrounding Tweek but he’s feeling okay. He’s got the cards down, even though it’s been years. _Don’t be an asshole, don’t slow roll_.

It’s been eight years, probably. Probably an October, when the fire bit their hands and those wrists didn't heal right. His left hand won't stop jittering.

He’s wearing the headphones, shuffling the deck and hearing some folky-sounding song off of Craig’s cassette player. Craig didn’t label this tape with any song titles, which is annoying as hell. He’s had it about a month already and it still plays better than anything he’s used before. Craig doesn’t think he can fix Tweek’s old Walkman, but he did a great job on the old Waltham watch and that was more important. It _tic tics_ , keeps things in sync and as long as things stay where they’re supposed to ---- as long as _hands_ stay where they’re supposed to ----

Besides, that very old cassette is still around, somewhere underground. At least Clyde didn’t bust _that_ tape when they fought a month ago. It has important recordings, one of a _kind_ recordings. Good thing that Tweek did bury it, and now, only _he_ knows. It’s too risky to tell anyone where that is. Even Craig.

Tweek can only just hear the muttering of everything around him, when the songs transition. He can see the freshly flushed intoxicated faces and curious kids. Kids he used to know, some he doesn’t think he ever did. They’re sitting at this table in a barn that Token found, drinking and being generally obnoxious. The bass is thumping, on something else, something that Tweek can’t listen to without breaking concentration. Concentration is important, it’s everything.

Concentration keeps cars, fast cars, away. Cars that steal little kids and run some experiments with large hands that smell like Gurkha Black Dragons but they’re green in the glow of the light it’s just a disguise, isn’t it? It’s always a disguise, that’s all, because those hands weren’t drunk or fumbling and belonging to a forty seven year old man who ran the music wasn’t playing loudly what the fuck is that song _she came running down_ the fuck was that song _he came running down_ what the hell was playing when they took his hand and promised it wouldn’t hurt but fast cars, hey, _speedy_ cars, you can’t trust people in cars you can’t trust that there won’t be screaming that there won’t be something to hurt little kids who only knew candy wrappers and believed that if you jumped high enough you could catch the moon in the palm of your hand not their hand not the hand calloused and a stubbed thumb one smooth ring _just play like you would_ just play it like you would just _pla_

“---y the goddamn hand already.” Tweek’s wheezing and jumping when his headphones get pulled off and he can hear the buzzed chatter of angsty teens. Obnoxious teens. It was Kenny, it was only Kenny.

“The f-fuck, the f-fuck is, d-don’t touch m-me, don’t f-fucking,” Tweek’s breathing worsens and he drops the deck. “The f-fuck. The fuck!” He shouts to himself, because weren’t they close, swarming close, at one point, real tight up against his ear just _play like you would without us_ just play it like you would _you can win oreos unless you_ lose and see that’s _why I need to be here to protect you to watch you don’t want to know what happens if you lose_ he watched he did didn’t he and then there were other rough hands but they said so so just play it just pla

“---y the hand. Told you he wasn’t all there. I knew I should’ve dealt,” Kenny grabs for the cards and Tweek impulsively knocks his hand away. “Ouch.”

“D-don’t,” He says, coldly, staring at nothing anyone can identify. “I’m, I p-play fair.”

“Maybe to _you_ , maybe those rules make sense to you, in _your_ head. I’m not mental, though, Tweeker.”

“D-don’t. Don’t call me that,” Tweek bites at his hand and thinks that maybe, maybe he shouldn’t be around here. He thought he could handle the deck, he’s good at shuffling. Where’s Craig, even? He shouldn’t’ve come, he shouldn’t’ve listened to Token. “I’m n-not a junkie.”

“You’re a tough little shit. Play the hand, yeah?” Kenny says and Tweek starts dealing it out. Stan frowns into his solo cup. Kyle heaves a groan. “Finals, amiright?” Kenny agrees, taking a large swig of beer.

“Man, what do _you_ know?” Kyle asks. “You dropped out.” Kyle pointedly remarks. Kenny, disgruntled, pats his stomach.

“I’m making better money than you,” Kenny says. “Way better.”

“You’re an asshat, Ken.” Kyle laughs into his own beer. He pokes at Stan.

“Hmmph?” Stan asks, dazed.

“What’re we betting?”

“All I got is crackers.”

“Tweek,” Kyle starts, beginning to connect things. “What’re we betting on?”

“HGD 35F,” Tweek says, clearly, without stuttering. He blinks, looks at Kyle, out of a stupor. “H-huh?”

“Uhm,” Stan makes an uncomfortable face. “Do you really know how to play?” Tweek flips Stan off, a trait he’s picked up from Craig.

“ _Uhm_ ,” Tweek mocks. “Fuck you, Stan.” Tweek says, finished with dealing. _Fourth street._

“Sheesh, Tweek. You’re kind of a douchebag.” Kyle says, while Stan pouts a little at being yelled at.

“W-well, I’m s-sorry you feel that way.” Tweek says, looking expectantly at Kenny. Kenny slurps his beer.

“What?” Kenny asks, clearly intoxicated.  

“What’s your, y-your blind?” Tweek rolls his eyes when he has no response. “How much are you in for?”

“Oh, what are we playing for again?”

“Money.” Tweek says, twitching a little.

“I don’t have money,” Stan slurs. “I don’t even have Wendy. Nothing matters.” Stan starts tearing up a little and Kyle pats his back with some kind of compassion, but also like he’s done with this, that it’s happened way too much and he’s really bored.

“O-okay, well, thanks for wasting m-my time.”

“Come back here, asshole. We can play for chips, like potato chips. Token’s got a whole lot of them,” Kenny suggests. “Ooh, oreos, oreos would be better. You think Token has any of those?” Tweek flinches violently.

“No.” He says. He picks up his cards. “N-no. I d-don’t lose. I’m not losing.” Kyle looks at him odd.

“Tweek, jesus, can’t you play the damn hand? Can't you just function for one night?” _Can’t you, you can’t can you, can you play won’t you_ you will you will there’s not a question bad things happen in cars in iron boxes in places thick rich with knives and diseases and _neon_ and oh god the prostitutes’ needles limp arms bad things happen to kids who don’t play by the rules to kids who slow roll you don’t slow roll play for oreos and get rich and win the game you don’t slow roll you don’t _make me wait no one makes me wait no one_

“You okay?” Token’s face is suddenly really close to Tweek and he’s concerned. Tweek hasn't seen him for a long time and wow, Tweek must be failing at something again, to get that look. “Are you sure?” Tweek must be nodding, but he can’t hear or feel anything besides his feet. They’re burning. “Want me to find Craig? Stay here.” _here stay pink and small stay here stay don’t fucking move or billy will cut you_ don’t run or do you want to be saved and flush with the cross hear doesn’t it burn to hear hear it doesn’t it burn hear it there _kids that fuck up billy takes care of that don’t fucking try to run you’ll be dead dead if you run_ run running under neon neon screams when it glows orange in the absence of Clyde where did Clyde go

“Hey, hey, are you alright?”

“Big river, forty seven.” Keep the monsters at bay, keep the monsters at bay, twist the watch keep the clock _the monsters won’t stay at bay_

“Whoa, Tweek. Um, hey, four breaths, yeah? I’m gonna count with you. Ready?” _Ready ready, they’re ready for you_ ready steady ready don’t slow roll you got a good hand well not that one that’s all twisted up now _because you were a rotten child and you ran billy said he’d cut you billy’s not a liar_ but you _had_ a good hand “One,” One, there was _way_ more than one “Tweek, I need you to breathe in, okay? Nice, good job. Here,” _Don’t put the hand there, don’t move it there, don't fucking touch don't touch where those cigar hands lived briefly it was brief it felt like longer like more mars_  bars like he needed more mars bars to hold up his bravery so brave you're a brave little kid “Jeez, okay, dude, just follow me?” _Did you scream? I bet you did. Did you follow these hands_ follow the road and don't walk like you're hurting it's okay it's okay rich rich rich like your dad fifty thousand bets and nothing screamed like you did fifty thousand dollar bets no one screamed like you did no one screamed like you did "Tweek, are you breathing okay?" okay, okay it's okay I promise mama says it's okay with the limp needle and the prostitute's arm limp arm is mama going to shout for all the men in the fast cars too no one screams like you you don't make me wait no one makes me wait "Just one breath, bud, that's all I'm asking." he'd never ask he never asked 

“Sorry. I,” _don’t count numbers anymore that’s why the watch is ticking for me_ “I, I’m s-sorry.” Tweek chokes out. 

“Don’t apologize. Do you wanna go somewhere else?”

“I h-hate these people.”

“Whoa, okay.”

“N-no, not, _jesus_ , not them.” Tweek points madly at the room full of drunken teenagers. Craig tries to follow his logic but can’t.

“I hope you don’t hate Jesus. He died for our sins.”

“I thought you w-weren’t religious.”

“I’m not a douchebag, though. If someone dies for me, I’ll recognize it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Craig looks at him funny. “What got you worked up? Was it Kenny?”

“Th-that guy’s an idiot," Tweek twitches violently. "No. I, c-can we go?”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on. Don’t you need a coat? Oh wait, I forgot, you’re a zombie.”

“Th-that joke was n-never funny.” Tweek frowns. 

“I kind of thought it was. There are a lot of zombie-esque b----”

“---ugs, I know, I, I kn-know.”

“No, no, but, Tweek, the parasite is killing the honeybees. Like, like zombies. They make them like _zombies_.” Tweek sniffs at the air. Smells familiar, smells awful and alcoholic.

“A-are you drunk?”

“Not totally. Just a little, itty buddy.”

“I knew a girl wh-who thought she was dead.”

“Eh, what?”

“Like a zombie.”

“No shit?”

“In the ward. That’s why she was, w-was in the ward, too.”

“Did you tell her you could see ghosts?”

“Y-yeah, th-that,” Tweek heaves a huge sigh and they keep walking. “That made it _worse_.”

“Did you think she was dead, too?”

“N-no.”

“How come you got there?”

“Huh?”

“In the ward.”

“‘M not s-supposed to talk about it. I’m supposed to be b-better.” _better not bitter better not bitter better not bitter_

“You’re perfect, buddy,” Craig starts. He coughs a little and pulls out this bottle from his pocket. He takes a sip. “I mean, you _seem_ fine.”  

“What _is_ th-that?” Tweek points to the bottle. Craig shifts it to look at the label. He squints.

“‘M not good with words. What’s this say, man?”

“Shit, cr-cricket, you’re drunk.”

“I guess,” Craig sighs and they keep walking, walking over the train tracks. They’re far enough from Token’s barn but there’s still nothing for miles, it seems. There are no lights. “It’s vodka.”

“Oh,” Tweek starts. He fumbles a little. “Wh-what’s it taste like?”

“Fire. Wanna see for yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah? Really? Oh, boy.” Craig grins. He hands the bottle to Tweek. It’s quite a weight. Tweek takes a sip, a big gulp and makes a terrible face. Craig laughs.

“Shit, d-dude, that’s awful! Wh-why do you drink that? Is that what everyone does?! That’s so b-bad!”

“Tweek, vodka’s something special. It’s magic shit, buddy. It’ll make all the pain go away, just have more and wait a little while. Works for me, like gold.” Tweek eyes the bottle again, then looks at Craig.

“Wh-what kind of pain do _you_ have?” Tweek asks, with a whole lot of curiosity and surprise. Craig looks away, after taking the bottle.

“Nothing this doesn’t solve.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Craig agrees, somewhat awkwardly. They walk, stretching their feet through the snow covered tracks. “Let’s cut through here.”  

“Can I, c-could you,” Tweek points at the bottle and Craig raises an eyebrow, though it looks kind of foolish as he stumbles. “Please.” Craig hands him the bottle and Tweek takes another large sip, hissing awfully.

“It’s good shit, right? You’re feeling better?”

“I g-guess. I hate crowds.” Tweek says, wiping his mouth.

“Why?”

“They, my dad always s-said there w-were _monsters_ and, and they looked like c-cops. And people, too, like, _it isn’t s-safe_ , son, _th-they lie to you._ S-so, I n-never went anywhere after," jesus what did you do after "After," Tweek repeats, solemnly. "I d-don’t know why I’m t-telling, _ngh_ , telling _you_.”

“Probably ‘cause of this guy here,” Craig swishes the liquor bottle around. “I think you’re a little buzzed, Tweek,” Craig laughs. Tweek looks a bit stunned. Craig smiles. “‘S’okay, I am, too. Did he tell you that after you set fire to the woods, back before Middle School? I think it was October.”

“Y-you remember?” Tweek scrunches up his nose and groans. “Gosh.”

“Of course I remember. You set fire to the woods behind my house. My mom was so pissed.” Craig laughs again, only this time, it’s a little sour. He frowns. They’re approaching Craig’s house, the lights are off and there’s no beat up Chevy in the driveway, no old junky Ford. No one’s home. It’s an old house, paint peeling and a roof you can sit on, right by the bedrooms. It’s the best thing about the damn place.

“Your m-mom was always pissed at me.”

“Yeah.” Craig agrees, solemnly. “It’s not your fault, she doesn’t like many people. It wasn’t a big fire even. It was just a little smoke. Only the pine tree got scorched. Come on. I don’t have a key.” Craig says as he climbs up the hill behind his house, leaping over the gap between his house and the hill, in an effortless manner and landing on the roof. He’s done this before, Tweek decides. He looks expectantly back at Tweek. Tweek shakes his head. “Come on, buddy, here,” Craig outstretches his hand. “Give me your hand.”

“Uh.” Tweek says, stupidly, and puts his hand out. Craig takes hold of it and looks Tweek in the eyes, those cloudy storm eyes.

“Okay, you gotta jump.”

“Um.”

“It’ll be fine,” Craig says, but Tweek looks more nervous, so he jumps back over to the other side. He clumsily lands on the hill, next to Tweek. “Let’s do it, together. Yeah?”

“O-okay.”

“I’ll count for us.”

“You always do.” Tweek whispers and Craig feels light.

“One, two, three.” He says, instead of saying something he really wants to, and they both jump. It wasn’t a big leap and they land okay, but the roof makes a terrible noise.

“Shit, what was _that_?”

“‘S fine. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” Tweek agrees, smiling a little flushed before he realizes Craig’s still stupidly holding onto his hand. “Uh, dude.”

“Oops.” Craig says, letting go.

“No homo?”

“Uh, yeah, Tweek. Sure.” Craig sits against the siding, right by his window. Tweek shuffles for a second before settling down near Craig.

“Sh-she doesn’t _hate_ many people, d-does she? Your mom, I mean.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because! I know th-that she hates me, I think your d-dad does, too.”

“No,” Craig takes a swig out of the bottle, wishing he could feel this open on a regular basis. “No. She,” Craig shakes his head. “Did I tell you she bleached out our lawn?”

“I, I hear it h-helps with pest control,” Tweek mutters. “But I d-don’t wanna _k-kill_ those bugs. I don’t like hurting things.” Craig beams.

“I fucking love bugs.”

“I, _ngh_ , I know you do.”

“You never kill them? Ever? Even the creepy crawly ones?” Craig sits up. Tweek shakes his head. Craig grins and pats Tweek’s shoulder. Tweek flinches, but Craig doesn’t notice. “Shit, Tweek, you know how to steal everyone’s breath, don’t you? I’m already too far gone, s‘not even funny. Fuck, you really don’t kill bugs?” Tweek shakes his head again, slightly amused with Craig’s rambling. “Wow, I didn’t think you _could_ get more, uh, more brilliant. Jeez, Tweek, you’re so damn pretty,” Craig slurs, smiling to himself. Tweek widens his eyes and he feels the warmth of that fire from years ago. It seems like Tweek’s intruded on a thought, something that Craig moves on quickly from, like he doesn’t even realize he said anything. “ _She_ did kill them, though,” Craig recalls, saddened. “All those poor junebugs, they don’t have long anyway,” He mumbles. “To purify.” Craig adds, sarcastically.

“Wh- _what_?” Tweek stutters, still alarmed by the comment Craig doesn’t even realize he said out loud.

“She wanted to _purify_ the place. My sister’s gotten ‘ _too friendly_ ’ with some kid in her class. My dad cheats a lot. And I,” Craig starts and shakes his head. Tweek’s waiting for him to say something but he doesn’t continue with that thought. “S’not like _she’s_ such a saint, though,” Craig aggressively hits back the bottle. Tweek watches on, tensing. “My dad and her weren’t even eighteen when they had me. They weren’t even _our age_.” Tweek shakes a little.

“My parents were, w-were almost forty.”

“That’s probably why you’re the way you are.”

“Why I, I’m what?”

“You got an old soul, buddy.”

“Oh,” Tweek says, dumbly. “I’m a senior, after all.”

“Hey, look at that,” Craig gestures to Tweek’s general direction so he looks all around himself. Craig laughs. “No, no, you, buddy, look at _you_. You aren’t stuttering. Guess this stuff does good for you. Here,” Craig hands Tweek the bottle and he turns it around a couple times. “Have more.”

“I, uhm.”

“Did I tell you how my parents met?” Craig asks, suddenly. Tweek blinks.

“No. Why the fuck would you?” Tweek’s knee-jerk response is with a scoff. He frowns. Maybe he is a little jaded. He struggles to put on a better face and tries to be polite, because now he’s curious. “I mean, how d-did they meet?”

“S’not poisoned,” Craig gestures at the bottle again. “Promise,” Tweek has another taste, even though he’s already feeling a little floaty and they’re missing a lot of the liquid that used to be in there. Where’d it go? The lights coming from the train tracks crossing below feel a lot warmer than before. He takes a big sip. “Atta boy.” Craig encourages, sloppily.

“How’d they meet?” Tweek asks, making a face and slightly out of breath.

“At a party, probably like the one we were supposed to be staying at tonight, actually.” Craig rubs his head sloppily. Tweek looks embarrassed.

“I’m sorry. I, I, there’s too much there, you know?”

“It’s fine, Tweek, don’t worry. I’m just _so_ happy you’re even sitting with me here.”

“How’d they, um, m-meet?” Tweek asks, rubbing at his face.

“Huh? Oh, _yeah_ , my dad wanted to bang the cheerleader. He was a pretty good athlete,” Craig slumps, a little dizzy. “He did that, though, I’m proof.”

“ _Eugh_ , dude, it’s gross when you put it like that.”

“Yeah, but see, I’m like a little trophy that he waltzes around of that time in his life. I’m a fucking relic,” Craig snorts. “Like, _look what my genes do_ . _I’ve got these plastic fake gold things and my offspring’s gonna get more._ Well, he doesn’t do that anymore. Actually, he hasn’t done that for a long time. ‘M not into sports,” Craig looks at bottle Tweek’s holding. He licks his lips, thinking about how easy everything becomes with that stupid fermented wheat liquid. “He’s not really a fan of her, either. Or me, not anymore.” Craig sighs. “It’s not very interesting. How’d your parents meet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Huh. Did they,” Craig rubs at his sleeve. He squints and looks anywhere but Tweek. “Did they love each other?”

“I, I can’t say.” Tweek says with narrowed eyes, still wondering how they got on this subject but too light headed and woozy to answer sarcastically.

“They used to make us coffee, didn’t they? I hate that stuff.”

“Y-yeah, they did that a lot. You puked it up everytime.” Tweek laughs. Craig pouts a little.

“Alright.”

“It was kind of funny. You didn’t stop drinking it, either. Why’d you keep drinking it if you hated it so much, cricket?”

“No reason,” Craig lies, fluttering at the nickname.  “Didn’t your mom sing?”

“Yeah, she _was_ a singer.” Tweek takes another gulp, thinking about his mother’s voice.

“What’d she sound like?” Craig asks. Tweek lights up at the memories.

“Like, breezy by the, uh, beach. Not the, not the touristy one. An old and nice rocky one. Like, like in Maine, where no one goes for miles ‘cept moose. Right on ocean. Cool in the summers, too. It was like,” Tweek sighs heavily. “Like the only place I could live was in one of her songs. She sang to me a lot.”

“I bet it was soothing,” Craig half slurs, with a bit of a broken beat. “Do you sing?”

“Not v-very well.”

“Huh, me neither.” Craig lies, but it’s a dumb little secret he’s not really willing to share. He’s not much good.

“She screamed, too, though. It made her voice hoarse afterwards when she would say goodnight to me. It was weird. _Sweet dreams,_ ” Tweek inhales, recalling her words. “ _And dragon man won’t find you._ ”

“Nobody could find you. I _looked_.”

“Yeah, well.” Tweek frowns.

“I really did. I missed you _so_ much. Clyde kept yelling at me to get over it. I even,” Craig shrugs a little and coughs. He rubs at his face again, laughing a little to deflect the awkwardness. “Even cried in front of him.” Tweek widens his eyes.

“B-because, because of _m-me_?”

“Yeah, of course. You were my dude. My main dude.” Craig folds his arms.

“Oh.” Tweek’s not sure what to say.

“You guys were friends, too, though. Did you have a fight or something?”

“N-no. Not a fight.”

“Well, what was it? You guys were friends.”

“I can’t, c-can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s Clyde’s choice, I, _I_ would, if it were up to me.”

“Clyde tells me everything. He’s always around.” Tweek eyes Craig with some compassion and pity, like he doesn’t know half the things he thinks he does.

“N-not _everything._ ”

“Yeah, he’s told me about his bowel movements more than once. That’s everything, Tweek. That’s everything.”

“Oh g-god.” Tweek squints, laughing a little softly and it’s a sweet sound that Craig could fall asleep to. He sinks down onto Tweek, cozying up to the warmth of his parka. Tweek shifts a little. “Uh, u-uhm, dude?” He stutters. Craig sighs, enjoying something he’d never do if he was sober.

“I think,” Craig starts, grinning stupidly and ridiculous. This is a good joke he’s thinking of, he’s nearly sure it’s the best thing he’ll ever speak out loud and that’s saying something. He’s repeated a lot of amazing facts, but this joke will win it all. “I think you make a good pillow, but why don’t you come to bed with me so we can be sure?” Tweek tenses a lot. Craig laughs easily. “‘S just a joke, don’t die on me. I don’t have super powers, like some. I wouldn’t be able to hear you. The end would be the end.”

“Th-that’s not funny.” Tweek says, twitching. Craig frowns.

“Why?” Craig asks honestly and Tweek just stares at him. He twitches.

“N-nothing, just isn’t funny.”

“Oh, well, I’m _so_ sorry.” Craig says, sarcastically.

“You should be. There’s not m-much worse than listening to your _‘jokes’_.” Tweek says, with air quotes.

“Maybe listening to Clyde talk ‘bout his shit. Think that’s a little worse.”

“ _You_ ,” Tweek puts his shaking hand on Craig’s shoulder. He leaves it there. Craig feels warmer, despite knowing that from a rational perspective, Tweek didn’t do shit to knock away the cold. In fact, he’s probably reaping in some of Craig’s body heat, the zombie bastard. “You talk about those dung beetles.”

“Hey,” Craig says, only half-heartedly trying to defend himself because Tweek’s right. “Still.”

“Oh, what?” Tweek says, with an eye roll. The clouds break up the sky and there’s nothing to see tonight. Craig thinks about this, about this feeling he has lately, about this weirdo next to him. He’s sure he could spend hours just enjoying his company, going on adventures like they would when they were young, hiking, even. Stargazing. Craig can imagine they’re not cloaked. He’d love to hear all of those theories coming from that face he can’t stop staring at, to know everything Tweek’s taught himself over the last eight years. He’s pretty sure this is love. It doesn’t matter how much his mom calls him a dumb shit, or those times when his dad feels the baseball bat is a fair bit of punishment for something he didn’t mean to say or even how his parents are far worse to each other. Craig’s sure his parents were never in love, because if they were, they’d be failing their history classes, not because they’re lazy or stupid, but because they’d spend half the session waiting for any glimpse they could get of each other.

They don’t do that and they never did.

“I don’t think my parents ever loved each other.” Craig blurts.

“O-oh.”

“Yeah, yeah, oh,” Craig rolls on his side. He stares up at Tweek, who looks a little more relaxed than normal but still anxious. “I don’t know why they didn’t call it quits before Ruby came along. Why they even kept me. Why  _get married_?” Craig shifts his eyes, purposefully avoiding Tweek even though he can smell the citronella candles on him and he thinks it’d be nice to do this when it’s not twenty degrees out and windy as hell. It’d be nice to do this in the summer and he could show Tweek the luna moths, where the honey bees live and all the plants he wishes he could own someday just so the bugs would come visit. He’d like to see Tweek’s face lit by fireflies. He knows Tweek would love them. “The engaged are some dumb shits.” Craig says, finally, attempting to move past his feelings.

“It’s a, uh, hard thing to figure out why people, y’know, marriage.” Tweek stumbles out. He starts tapping his hand wildly. Craig watches it, enthralled.

“I guess unless she’s pregnant or the dude’s got a big, fat wa----”

“ _Whoa_!” Tweek interjects. Craig snorts.

“I was gonna say wallet, but okay if you went there.”

“Oh,” Tweek pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Craig. It’s a wallet. He laughs a little. “It’s fat, but there’s no money. I’m so broke.” Craig starts pulling out the little pieces of paper stuffed in it.

“What is this? What’s this say?” Tweek leans over Craig to look at it. From Craig’s angle, he looks so tall.

“Sober up.” Tweek says simply.

“You’re hilarious.”

“It’s just a coupon. I don’t know what it’s for. It’s probably expired,” Tweek shakes his head. “Wh-what jackass would marry for _that_?”

“I guess I get it.” Craig says quietly.

“What?”

“I get why _someone_ would.” He hands Tweek the wallet back. He sniffs a little from the cold. “I mean, I think it’d be different, better if both were broke. ‘Cause then you’d know it was for real. Probably, I guess. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, man, what?” Tweek asks, dazed and out of it. “I’m losing myself here.”

“That’s a-okay.”

“Yeah, even though it’s your own damn fault.”

“Whoops,” Craig garbles. “Why?”

“Doofus, I, I n-never drink. Wh-what’s your, your ulterior motive here?” Tweek asks, light and slurry. He takes another sip. “Tryna g-get me to give up all my theories or what?”

“Maybe you should slow dow----” Craig reaches for the bottle and Tweek holds it back.

“Uh uh. No way. P-party, cricket! Whoo!” Tweek takes another long drink, shouts and falls over Craig a little.  

“You lunatic.” Craig grins up at him. Tweek furrows his brows.

“‘M not nuts.” He says, adjusting himself, looking into Craig’s face somewhat hurt and still a little drunk. He appears half confused, sad and only a little bit pissy. Craig just wants to see him smile again, especially from the view he’s got at this angle, upside down and backlit by the lights coming from his neighbor's houses and the train crossing below. Tweek’s got a bronze halo.

“Then I’m not a squirrel.” Craig responds, a kind of knee jerk reaction.

“Wh-what?” Tweek snorts, shaking a little as he laughs. Craig’s moths flutter wildly. “You aren’t a squirrel.”

“I dunno, Tweek, I dunno. I am super into you, though.” Craig frowns. Tweek looks flat out confused now.

“Uh, u-uh what?”

“Nothing, Tweek.”

“O-oh, okay.” Tweek says suspiciously. Tweek leans back and Craig misses seeing his face over him. He watches as Tweek takes another drink and tips the bottle way back. It’s empty.

“Shit, buddy, how much of that did you have?” Craig asks, wide eyes, sitting up a little. He’s still half leaning on Tweek. Tweek shakes his head.

“N-no where n-near enough. This is kinda f-fun. How come you always call me buddy?”

“I dunno.”

“I like it, I like being your buddy.” Tweek says, rolling the empty bottle on his leg to pass time. “You wanna know why Clyde hates me now?” He asks, boozey.

“I don’t think he hates you.” Tweek scoffs.

“Sure, well, you,” Tweek eyes him carefully. “You got too much f-faith, cricket. Y-you’re kinda naive. You can’t tell him that I’m s-saying this. Okay? Y-yeah?”

“Okay.” Craig agrees, softly.

“Promise?”

“Yeah, jeez, tell me already.”

“P-pinky promise?” Craig rolls his eyes.

“Fine, pinky promise.” They shake pinkies and Craig feels really tempted to hold on but Tweek lets go.

“O-okay, okay,” Tweek says, after he feels satisfied with that sloppy kind of pinky shake they did. “It was all the, the, uh,” Tweek frowns. He glances around with a look of slight panic. “A-aliens.” He whispers.

“What.” Craig says, with a lot of disbelief that Tweek thankfully doesn’t pick up on.

“I-it h-happened in a v-van, too, I g-guess that’s where they transport people. You know, t-to _blend_ in.” Tweek adds, with a lot of vulnerability that Craig hasn't witnessed. Panic, paranoia, he's seen that, but he hasn't seen Tweek be so vulnerable. It makes him sad. 

“I guess.” Craig says, unsure, with a smaller voice than he’s used to having.

“Th-they took us,” Tweek’s wishing he had another bottle now ‘cause he isn’t sure if he can tell this story right. “They took us, and, a-and they tried to t-take us apart,” He pulls up his sleeve and shows his wrist to Craig. “S-see?” Craig looks at it with blurry vision. There’s a scar there, a longish odd one that Craig probably wouldn’t notice unless he was really looking. Fuck, he’s always looking. “Clyde’s got one, too. ‘M not a liar.”

“Who took you?”

“Aliens, cricket! Aliens. D-dragon,” Tweek breathes out loud slowly and he hasn’t talked about this in actual, spoken words for at least three years and that was to a doctor in some sterile hospital oh fuck Craig _definitely_ thinks he’s psychotic now “Man, I’m not making this up.”

“I,” Craig starts out slowly. He eyes the scar again. “I believe you.” He settles with. Tweek looks at him with these large surprised eyes and they’re tinted by the glow of the warm lights from the train crossing. He can still barely make out Tweek’s face, it’s so dark outside.

“N-no one has, no one. In, in e-eight years, no one has. Y-you’re not patronizing m-me?”

“No,” Craig says. Hey, if ghosts are real, why can’t aliens be? He’s always held onto that hope, anyway, since the day he first saw the Twilight Zone and all those cheesy ass old _Star Trek_ episodes his grandfather taped on VHS. Craig inherited them. He still tries not to think about death. He hopes, in this moment, that his grandfather isn’t lying as a ghost in a cold graveyard. He couldn’t visit and he hasn’t been back there in three years. He hopes his grandfather is off somewhere else pleasant, out of the reaches of the strange in-between existence that only Tweek seems to hear. The weird in-between that seems to drive Tweek mad. “No, I believe you.”

“I,” Tweek starts, readily defensive. “I, wh-whoa, _r-really_ ? Really?” He breathes out a little, voice rising. “N-no one believed me! N-not even Clyde and h-he was _th-there_ . Not my mom and shit, my d-dad, too, he _knew_ dragon man.”

“Who’s dragon man?” Tweek frowns. He doesn’t say anything for awhile and the wind blows a fresh pile of snow over them. Craig’s teeth chatter unnoticeably. “Can we go inside?”

“Why? C-cold? Aren’t you just a big baby?” Tweek remarks, lightly.

“Heat is leaving my body. It’s part of the universe’s mission to even everything out. It wants equilibrium, Tweek. You can call me a baby, but it’s science. You’ve gotta be a force out of the goddamn universe if you’re not cold,” Craig grumbles. “Or you _are_ the universe and you’re taking my warmth away.”

“Wow, okay, fine. Are y-your parents coming home tonight, cricket?”

“Not until later. Late tonight. You can stay over if you want.”

“I can’t st-stay the night.”

“You should. You really should, Tweek. If,” Craig sighs. “If you won’t stay, let me walk you home. It’s dark.”

“Hey, I, I w-was never afraid of the dark. Wh-what could you do, you, you...um, Craig?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a baby cricket called?”

“Just a nymph. That refers to a lot of baby bugs, though. Wait.” Craig says, as he seems to catch on.

“Nymph. You big nymph.” Tweek says, testing it out. “What kind of protection would you be in the dark, nymph?”

“Crickets are nocturnal, actually. And I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“Y-you used to be.”

“Well, I mean, anything can happen in the dark. Like those huge centipedes in the nighttime, they eat bats. In the Amazon.”

“Shit, th-that’s f-fucked up! The hell, dude! Don’t you like anything besides bugs?

“Spiders are pretty cool,” Tweek scoffs. “What?”

“They’re basically bugs, dude.” He says, getting up. Craig follows.

“No, they’re not.”

“Well, they’re bug adjacent. Don’t you like anything else?”

“I like other animals, too, actually. I like animals a lot better than people. People suck, Tweek, don’t trust them. Crows are sweet. Pigs, also. Do you know how smart they are?” Tweek nods animatedly.

“I, I like pigs, too. You know Ch-Churchill loved pigs. Winston Churchill. The prime minister of Britain during WWII. W-well, _most_ of th-the war. He collected pig memorabilia, actually,” Tweek talks and seems very inspired the story. Craig listens happily. “Said that dogs look up to men, cats look down on men and pigs look men straight in the eyes and see an equal. Cool, r-right?” Craig grins. He stretches and opens the window to his room.

“That’s gnarly. I still like dogs, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” Tweek sighs contently. “What else?”

“Hm? Oh, science fiction is good, I like the Talking Heads,” Craig hums. He crawls in his window. He looks back at Tweek and watches as his friend carefully tries not to break his head on the glass. “I like _you_.” With that, Tweek fumbles and falls in a odd heap on the floor.

“Aw, sh-shit.” Tweek mumbles. Craig laughs. He shuts his window.

“Dude, you’re drunk.” Craig, standing from his bookcase. Tweek looks around from the floor, smiling a little. His eyes catch a painting on Craig’s wall. It’s simply the moon from Craig’s window, but it glows so evenly and sweetly.

“Whoa, rad,” Tweek points to it. “Where’d you get that?”

“Ruby painted it. Isn’t it good?” Tweek nods.

“Shit, she’s talented. I can’t even keep my hand straight for longer than five minutes.” Craig shakes his head and flops on his bed, staring up at the painting.

“I can’t do anything straight.” He snorts.  

“What?” Tweek asks, dumbly.

“Nothing, man.” Craig says, kind of embarrassed by his shitty joke but still a little surprised Tweek hasn’t seemed to pick up on literally anything he’s admitted to in the last hour.

“Oh.”

“You say that a lot! I never get over it, how much you say that.”

“Well, you talk too much, we've been over, _ngh_ , over this.”

“Only around you, Tweek.”

“Why?”

“You’re something special, man.”

“Not really.” Tweek shrugs.

“Dude, seriously? Seriously? You talk to ghosts. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever known. Plus,” Craig begins rambling on. He probably shouldn’t have had this much alcohol but whatever. “You’re so fucking smart,” Tweek scoffs at that. Craig rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to be humble. You’re really a goddamn beautiful, spunky little bastard. I’m so into you. Like, if I was a crow, I’d just wait my whole life for you. Actually, fuck _that_ , that doesn’t make sense,” Craig hisses and looks at his ceiling. “I’ll wait my whole life for you now, dude.”

“U-uh, um.” Craig laughs.

“Shit, what did I say?”

“Uh.”

“Did I break you? Don’t die on me.”

“T-tell me something else.” Tweek says, shakily.

“Like what?”

“Wh-what are,” Tweek looks really confused as he pulls out the Walkman. He gets up, standing a little drunkenly, trying to keep his balance and hands Craig the tape inside. “What is th-this?” Craig smiles.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s a cassette.”

“No, I know _that_.”

“Uh, then what’s your question?”

“Wh-what, what does it mean?”

“What do you _think_  it means?” Tweek pulls at his head wildly.

“I d-don’t know!” He screeches a little.

“Whoa, easy, there,” Craig says, moving a hand towards him. Tweek puts his hands down. “Do you like it?” Craig asks, somewhat nervously.

“I,” Tweek blinks. _Does_ he like it? He never listens to voices. “I think so.”

“Oh, good.”

“Wh-where’d you get it?” Tweek asks, though he’s pretty sure Craig mixed it up. Craig looks a little embarrassed. He shifts a little and Tweek takes that as a sign to sit down. He doesn't do it gracefully, just sort of falls on the bed and heaves a long sigh that makes Craig's heart noisy in his ears. 

“Just cleaning house. I found a tape recorder. I thought you might like it.” Tweek smiles, face close, his toothy smile that Craig rarely sees. It’s like a solar eclipse, just changes the mood of everything and it happens so little.

“I, I liked the part where on this first track you said ‘ _ah fuck_ ’ when it cut out. That was my f-favorite part.”

“You have bat ears. You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I always hear when you talk.”

“Uh, yeah? ‘Cause I’m so annoying? Just grates on your nerves, I bet.”

“No, no, it’s not annoying at all. _Jesus,_ cricket, you don’t th-think that highly of yourself, do you?” Tweek asks, frowning while playing with the strings on Craig's hat. 

“I don’t know.” Craig mumbles. 

“D-do, do you sing?”

“I’d kill your ears. I’m awful.” Craig snorts.

“Sing me something.” Tweek says, really softly. The moths just want to leave whenever Tweek is near. They go crazy and Craig feels like doing a lot of things he probably shouldn't. 

“Like what?”

“I, I d-dunno, you’re c-creative,” Tweek says, slowly. Craig frowns and doesn’t do anything for a long time. Tweek stretches, yawning. He looks sleepy, but he places his hands back on the hat strings, pensive. “I," He looks Craig back in the face. "Shit, this vodka stuff does a lot, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Craig agrees. "Definitely. I'd never do this if we were sober."

"Do wh-what?"

"Y'know, be, um, well, Tweek," Craig laughs. "This is pretty homo."

"I, I'm sorry." Tweek says, dropping his hands and turning to look at the ceiling instead of Craig. 

"No, Tweek, you know, you fucking know I'd," Craig looks at his hands and then Tweek's. Tweek's left one is ticking madly and Craig turns it over to look at the scar. Tweek hisses. "I'd burn those monsters with you again. I'd set fire to my woods. We could find them this time."

"How?" Tweek whispers. "They all said I was crazy."

"I don't know. I just want to help you now."

"Then sing me a song. You're too, t-too drunk to do anything else." Craig heaves a huge sigh and rolls his eyes. 

"If you laugh, I'll---"

"Do what, bug boy?" Tweek asks, with a smirk. "I won't l-laugh. Pinky promise," Tweek holds out his pinky and Craig grabs onto his hand instead. "Whoa," Tweek says with wide eyes. "Mega promise. Th-that's a big commitment. Not to laugh."

"I believe you can handle it, don't kill my faith." Craig says, rolling his eyes. He doesn't let go of Tweek's hand and Tweek starts relaxing. "Close your eyes, asshole." Craig mutters. 

"Why?"

"I don't sing around people. Give me a little dignity."

"Fine." Tweek closes his eyes and Craig allows himself to stare for a long time. He starts humming a little, just some old doo-wop song he can barely remember. Tweek relaxes. When Craig actually starts to sing, Tweek's fast asleep and Craig feels the magnetic pull of his own eyelids so he turns on his side, uses his friend as a pillow and feels the hum of the train tracks don't matter. The revving of an old Chevy and a junky Ford don't either, nor does the shouting of his parents, the anger of Clyde, the determined sting of a hornet, the sting of a past that no one wants to relive, the sting of the truth. All that matters is the pulse of his friend lying next to him, the intake and exhale of this weirdo who calls him cricket and knows words Craig won't ever understand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how much longer this story is going to be, guys. i really appreciate comments and any suggestions/parts you hated or enjoyed are supremely helpful! this is the longest thing i've ever written lol i don't know what to do with my life <3 thanks for reading!!!


	10. Sunday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!! i'm so sorry for the delay and this chapter is kind of short but i have been working on this story a lot and trying to figure out a way to resolve it. if there are things that you want me to expand on, i will totally do those and you can let me know in the comments because they really help me finish things! shoutout to nokoikoi for this suggestion...thanks dude!!! :3 <3 you guys are gonna meet ruby (i can't call her tricia i've been here too long i'm oldschool and stuck in my ways) i hope the holiday season has been swell for you all! :)
> 
> p.s.  
> if anyone's confused about the timeframe, this chapter specifically follows the last chapter.

Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t run. _Don’t touch, don’t fucking touch._ The air smells like cheap alcohol, like souring tastebuds and it singes, fucking cuts. This stifled room is too much. It’s uncomfortable.

There’s someone lying on Tweek, an arm pinning him down and _oh god_ it smells like booze. Pins and _needles_. Don’t move. Don’t run. Don’t move. There’s shouting downstairs, loud and awful screaming.

 _If they think you’re asleep, maybe they’ll stay away._ Shut your eyes. It’ll be over soon enough. Tweek doesn’t know how he got here. He hopes he’s dreaming, he hopes it’s just a nightmare. A hand stretches over his chest and he’s thankful he’s got his parka still. But then it moves under the jacket, pulls on his neck and grabs at his skin, just like before just like years ago it was just there they were just there there were alcoholic hands and cigars and what happened to the music? Where's his music? Where the fuck is his music?

 _Don’t touch, don’t fucking touch._ Tweek’s face is twitching violently and he’s so aware of the weight, of someone breathing next to him, half on top of him and he can’t move. He can’t move. He doesn’t like to be helpless and he doesn't want to get cut. He always sleeps alone, how come someone’s next to him? Did they take him back, did the aliens find him again? Did he ever really leave?

“---all your _whores!_ ” A woman screams.

“If you weren’t a fucking bitc----” A man responds, gruffly. There’s a clash. A dramatic noise. Tweek’s tense, he knows he’s tense. The hand on his neck moves down and pulls him closer with a deep sound, like sigh. It rumbles through Tweek and he feels his stomach churning. The person on his chest, breathing lowly, is strong. It’s a heavy weight, a gravity and Tweek feels helpless. He feels stuck.

“Don’t call me _that._ ” It’s that same woman. She sounds bitter.

“I wouldn’t need to sleep around.”

“You’re the reason this house is in shambles.” The woman says, like she’s resolved this argument. There’s stomping and more stomping and it’s coming closer and it’s opening a door, _this_ door? What room is Tweek in? Maybe Tweek should open his eyes but _why should he have to see how wrong their expressions are, how happy they are when he’s still hurting? Like before._ Just like before. Keep your eyes closed, it won't hurt for long. He doesn’t open his eyes, just waits and pretends he’s praying. 

His wrist is twitching, the door slams shut and whoever is next to him jolts up. That hand is gone, the head is gone, the weight is gone. The warmth is over, the patterned breathing is interrupted and there’s a lot of shuffling. There’s a grumble, that rumbling voice and oh shit, it’s Craig's pretty voice. It sounds like sandpaper, sweet smooth and mellow. Like sandpaper. Calming. Was it only Craig? Tweek blinks his eyes open, turns to the side and finds himself looking straight into Craig’s sleepy face. Craig’s all tongue-tied when he realizes Tweek’s staring back at him. He looks down. Tweek glances around the room, sees no one else and was it just Craig? Just him this whole time? No, no, there had to be others, he can’t be safe. He’s never safe when he isn’t sleeping alone.

Bad things happen when you aren’t paying attention.

“They only yell like this sometimes.” Craig says, gesturing to the downstairs. Tweek’s not breathing so fast anymore. Some flashes of last night are coming back to him. He remembers the evening, nice and relaxing weather and Craig's booze. Oh. Craig got cold at one point and he piled himself onto Tweek, didn't he? Outside, though, they were outside. The memories are fuzzy and warm. Craig’s voice does have this calming effect on him. Did Tweek tell him about the aliens? Shit, fuck. You never tell. You're not supposed to tell, telling gets you big cuts and no more Mars Bars and no more Oreos and you lose when they lay a touch on your neck and it goes low until your spine chokes up and you can't help but screaming when they cut into you and reveal themselves as the true aliens, the monsters that they are because that's the only explanation for inhumane cruelty something away from this world and Tweek can’t stay here anymore. He can’t let his guard down, he can’t be a kid because kids get hurt and he’s not going to get hurt again. "You okay? Can you, um, can you breathe?"

"N-no, I, I have to go." Tweek manages to get out, strongly and he's internally satisfied with how it comes out. He doesn't want to go, he wants to lie here and fix the bags under his eyes, to listen to Craig talk all day. He wants to watch him smile and find the dimple that sows only sometimes. But he can't stare and he can't stay here. Craig already knows too much and now Tweek's panicking that the aliens will find his friend. That they'll destroy the guy that makes life easier and seem more like living. No, for everyone's safety, Tweek needs to leave. Craig's looking at him now, with this expression that looks nearly sorrowful and no, Tweek doesn't need to register it that way. Because Craig probably thinks Tweek's crazy anyway, after believing aliens took him, and he probably is looking for a way to get out of this situation. Tweek blinks and tries not to let these thoughts sting him. 

It didn't matter so much, when he was alone. When his only company was already dead, in a graveyard. It didn't matter so much, when people called him crazy because, hey, that's what they did all the time in the ward. But for some reason, Craig thinking of him as nuts really cuts. The mere thought of aliens running their cigar-smelling hands down Craig sickens Tweek and he starts twitching, he’s still lying on his side and he needs to leave. He has to leave.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you," Craig mutters and Tweek's not really listening to the words he's saying. He'd have to stay. "Not that it was bad. I mean, not that it was anything. _Shit_ , how much did you let me drink? _You_ must have a headache.”

“I have t-to go.”

“Really? It’s Sunday. Where do you have to be? We’re pretty much finished with Samson’s class. Do you have more homework? Can I help?”

“You th-think I’m stupid?” Tweek begins and he's becoming impatient. Antsy. Bitter. "Fuck y-you, f---"

“Tweek, no, you goddamn wildcard. Jesus, you're the smartest kid I know. I just want you to stay longer.” Tweek blinks at the words but he can't stay.

“You, um, you ask t-too many questions, m-man.” He settles with. 

“I’m just curious.” Craig says, sheepishly.

“I have t-to _go,_ ” Tweek gets up, feels the terrible headache rush but looks around the room for the cassette player. He finds it on the floor, after stumbling. He checks it out for damages and seems satisfied with it. He slings the headphones on and looks at Craig nervously. “I, uh, s-sorry.” Craig watches Tweek fumble with his jacket and he’s out the window in such a hurry that Craig’s sure he dreamed up that kid.

Craig rubs at his face, wonders what could have happened for Tweek to leave so fast. Maybe Craig weirded him out by sleeping on him. He didn't really mean to, though, to be fair. It was just, Tweek was using his pillow and it was so easy to fall asleep with that uneven breathing that proved his friend was living. That proved he was real and it was almost easy to ignore the moths knocking up his insides.

His parents are still insulting each other, probably close to _attacking_ each other downstairs and maybe that’s it, too. Maybe Tweek doesn’t wanna be around that shit, doesn’t wanna deal. Craig wouldn’t blame him. Most days, he doesn’t do it well himself.

Craig gets up and brushes his teeth in his room. He doesn’t risk getting involved in his parents’ debacle downstairs so he clobbers onto his roof from the window and spits over the edge. It’s still dark out. Craig guesses it’s barely five or six. His dad’s shouting about how little he gets laid compared to other couples and his mom’s complaining about how their family’s gone to shit. How Craig’s got some floozy upstairs now, he’s just like his dad. Craig realizes they’re talking about Tweek and Tweek’s not a floozy. He’s definitely not just ‘ _some_ ’ anything. Craig shakes his head, listening from the porch. They don’t really care about that, anyway. The goddamn neighborhood can hear every word and Craig’s glad, so fucking glad that their closest neighbor is an eighty six year old Polish immigrant who knows five words in English; tomfoolery, flower, coffee, cinnamon and yam.

They’re shouting about Ruby now and yeah, what happened to Ruby last night? Where’d she get off to last night? Craig supposes he should check around the house but he still doesn’t want to see the two loudest people downstairs. He can’t reach her window from the roof so he climbs back in, as quietly as he can. It’s too cold outside, anyway. Besides, he won’t get any glimpse of Tweek. The guy’s long gone. It was stupid to wish that. Craig knows wishes don’t come true.

“Bratwurst,” Craig whispers, padding nearly soundlessly through the hall. He gets to Ruby’s door and cracks it open. “Bratwurst,” He whispers, only a slightly louder and in a sing-song voice he reserves for the company of only his little sister. “Psst, bratwurst, you alive?”

“‘S so gross when you call me that. I don’t want that. You’re the vegetarian, why do you call me that?” Ruby mutters, sleepily into her pillow. Craig creeps in and tries to set his mind off that platinum hair shock. He tries to get away from those constellation freckles Tweek’s got, even though he swears Orion is there, right below the stormy eye that always twitches first. He could look longer, for days and he bets he could find Ursa Major, too. Craig is trying to forget the comfortable parka covering uneven breathing, deep in sleep, of his childhood friend. Ruby blearily looks at him and that pulls him away from all this, if only briefly. His little sister seems so grown up. She must’ve gone to some party tonight because she still has all the makeup gunk on her face and her hair’s tangled up in its’ bun. “I was _dreaming_.”

“How? They’re loud tonight.”

“Tonight? Did I sleep through a day? Please _God_ , tell me I slept through a whole day.”

“Nah. Sorry, kiddo.”

“It was,” Ruby thinks about this. “Three when I got in. What time is it?”

“Time for you to get a watc---”

“Craig, how _do_ you make friends when you have jokes like that? Seriously, how do they stay by you?” Craig flips her off and she re-adjusts her pillow to glare at him. “No, really, I wanna write a book ‘bout you. You’re a fascinating specimen. Maybe Tweek will read it,” She nods thoughtfully, half lidded and smug. Craig glares. “What? Isn’t that why you were reading _Wise Blood_ and asked me to explain it? I’ve seen you do your English homework. You don’t care _that_ much, don’t even think you start the damn thing half the time," Craig shrugs. "In _my_ book, I’ll write a _whole_ section about how you told me you were gonna marry Tweek in the fourth grade. The pop rocks _‘cake’_ and everything, Craig. _Everything_.” Ruby rants on and Craig sort of regrets waking her up.

“Well, leave out what happened when I told mom and dad that, will you? Not really a fairy tale ending.”

“Your story’s barely begun, Craig. It’s nowhere near ending. ‘Sides, I think the part about Stripe being your best man is both hilarious and peachy sweet.”

“Alright, Ruby, what’d _you_ do tonight? Pregnant yet?” Craig barks. Ruby looks mildly embarrassed but still drowsy.

“Did you finally get kissed by your boy or did you scare him off when you ranted on ‘bout those shit beetles?”

“Dung beetles.”

“Nope, nope. Shit beetles.”

“Why’d you get in so late, bratwurst?” Craig says, nudging her foot.

“I thought they had the morning shift.” Ruby admits, gesturing to the downstairs. Craig shakes his head, wry smile.

“Nah, _night_ shift.”

“Whatever. Dad was drinking when I got in.”

“Did he find my stash?”

“No, your fancy alcohol is safe. He did see you two, though.”

“So?” Craig asks, like he’s not in pain.

“He was only a slightly less than pissed but I guess he figured he couldn’t beat someone else’s son up. He mentioned, uh, whatsername... _Jim’s_ daughter to me, though, ranted about why can’t you be normal and go out with her. Why can’t anyone be normal in this family, is what he said. Who knows what’ll happen today. Just warning you.” Ruby adds, sympathetically.

“I just fell asleep on him. It wasn’t a big deal. Tweek left anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“Your face says different, pathetic.”

“You’re pathetic.” Craig adds, fighting back somewhat weakly, mostly because his little sister is right and she’s two years younger than him. She raises an eyebrow, as well as her middle finger and sinks deeper into her pillow.

“I can’t believe I’m the younger one.”

“Believe it, pipsqueak.”

“Tweek looked so mellow. How’d you get him to sleep? Did you,” Ruby yawns, more awake. “Awh, Craig, did you _sing_ for him? I bet you did. You guys were cozy. Like a puzzle. Awh. You sang for him, didn’t you? Isn’t that adorable.”

“Shut my window next time you creep in. Some privacy would be nice.” Is all Craig can muster up.

“You shouldn’t leave it open. I don’t have a key either.” Craig raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“The backdoor is _always_ unlocked.”

“Ew, nasty, save the sex talk for Tweek. I don’t wanna hear that.”

“Oh, fuck off, bratwurst. You know what I meant.” Craig says, red-faced. Ruby blinks at him. “ _What_?” He growls out but Ruby is never intimidated by that sound. She's pretty used to it, even.

“It’s funny seeing you like someone. I didn’t think you’d ever have feelings. I thought you’d stay a brick wall and become a monk. Or separate into a million monarchs after you died alone.” Ruby confesses, somewhat mournfully. Craig fights the urge to flip her off because he only gets so many of those before they become meaningless and you know, it _is_ Sunday.

“Did you just call me that chick from _the_ _Corpse Bride_?” He asks instead, gritting his teeth a little.

“‘S realistic.”

“I hope not.”

“Why are you so giddy, Craig? Why’d you wake me up? It’s early. I just want to sleep.” She whines. Craig folds his arms and attempts to play things cool but ultimately fails, as is par for the course.

“I think I did scare him off.”

“Lemme guess! Your zombie bug facts aren’t so attractive! The mating rituals of cicadas don’t work on human boys like you thought!”

“ _No_ , I’m not weird,” Craig mutters, flustered. “He doesn’t mind bugs anyway. He calls me cricket, even.” Ruby blinks at him, slightly annoyed.

“Seriously? Craig, did you really just came in here to gab? Screw you, you’re such a girly girl.” Ruby says, rolling her eyes and tossing something at Craig. It’s just a shirt and he chucks it back.

“That wasn’t clean, was it?” Craig asks, cringing.

“Since when do you care?” Craig shrugs and the whole attitude _is_ somewhat pathetic. Ruby feels a bit of sympathy for him so she offers up her best wooing ideas. “Why don’t you give him a rose or something. Give him a mixtape. I don’t know. When did I become your love guru?”

“You’re not my love guru. You’re bratwurst.”

“Seriously, Craig, you have to stop with that. It literally makes no sense.”

“Don’t think so.” Craig says, cheekily.

“You are the fucking worst. I hate this family.”

“Ruby, what happens if I already gave him a mixtape?”

“Fab, that’s fab. Seemed like it ended pretty well so what _are_ you complaining about?”

“We had a lot of vodka.”

“That’ll do it. Well, did you get some tonight? Is that why you’re so annoying and talkative?”

“Christ no, nothing happened. Nothing,” Craig fumbles. Ruby raises an eyebrow. “I put tons of music on that tape, though.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff I thought he’d be into.”

“How many love songs?”

“I’m supposed to put cheesy ass love songs on it? Is that a rule or something?”

“Craig, you didn’t put any love songs on your fucking love confessional mixtape?” Craig ducks sheepishly and shakes his head. “You moron. Wow. _Wow!_  Like, _really?_ Wow.”

“I didn’t think he’d like them.”

“Oh _please_ , you don’t think he’ll like you. You’re not so stupid, that’s what this is about. You’re just insecure, aren’t you?”

“You don’t know me. He hates the summer.”

“What? What a weirdo. Who hates summer?”

“I know!” Craig exclaims, smiling. “I know. He _is_ weird.”

“What kind of music does he like?” Ruby asks, deciding to be somewhat helpful seeing the dopey look on her brother’s incapable face.

“He’s cultured, Ruby. He listens to violins and pianos. Classical stuff.”

“Okie dokie, pretentious. What’d you put on the tape?”

“The Talking Heads. Devo. Pixies. Peter Gabriel. I also put Janis Joplin on it.”

“‘ _Me and Bobby McGee_ ’? Like grandpa used to play?”

“Yeah,” Craig hums, thoughtfully. “Yeah, in the old Chrysler. The damn Chrysler.”

“Remember when he drove us out to New Mexico?” Ruby asks, after a few minutes of silence. Craig was sure she had gone back to sleep.

“Yeah. Hey, how do you remember that, pipsqueak? You were barely seven.”

“ _You_ were the one that puked. Grandpa didn’t yell at you, did he? Not like mom. Mom would’ve been pissed.”

“She would have.” Craig agrees, quietly.

“Grandpa wasn’t. He kept playing his country music and let you puke all you want. Didn’t he call you Kirk?” Craig smiles.

“Yeah. Captain Kirk. Yeah, he used to call me that.”

“I was jealous. He never gave me a cool nickname.”

“What’re you talking about? He called you Susie Q.”

“He did?” Craig nods. Ruby smiles, this distant memory blooms in her mind of the soft-spoken veteran, of her grandfather and she seems relieved. “What Peter Gabriel song?”

“Huh?” Craig asks, shaken out of the dusty desert, of that past he wishes he could return to most days lately. “Oh, ‘ _Solsbury Hill_ ’.”

“Seriously? Wow, Craig, that’s real gushy stuff there.”

“Really?” Craig asks, hopefully.  

“No, not really, just. Okay. _Christ_ , you’re a moron. Don’t you know how these things work? You find the sappiest songs you can, you put them all on a tape and then you write _‘oh my heart burns for you be my mate_ ’ or something cheesy on the cover. It’s a total cop out, but I know words are difficult for you to control.”

“I’m not writing that.”

“Well, Craig, okay, I guess you’re going to be alone forever.”

“What would I even put on it?” Craig asks, like this conversation physically pains him. He really hates that Tweek has made him into a garbling pile of nonsense. He can’t believe how incredibly sappy he’s become since he saw those eyes, since he first smelled citronella candles in the eerie abandoned church.

“You listen to that old doo wop shit. Don’t even lie. I’ve heard you sing them. It’s half of why dad calls you a pansy.”

“Thanks, Ruby, that was a nice sting.”

“Sorry,” Ruby apologizes, honestly. The sky’s brightening up and she groans. “You woke me up. My filter barely works. I’ve had like, an hour of sleep and I’m a growing teen.”

“You’re not much help. I’m going back to my room.”

“Seriously? Motherfucker. I’m awake now. Why’d you wake me up?” Ruby cries.

“I wanted to make sure you were alive.” Craig says, obnoxiously casual. 

“Dick. A grand ol’ fuck you goes your way, big brother.”

“That was long-winded.”

“ _You’re_ long-winded, Craig. Just ask him out and stop bothering me with this nonsense,” Ruby tiredly whines into her blanket. “Put Patti Smith on your little love tape there. ‘ _Because the Night_ ’, do it,” Ruby smirks. Craig frowns. “He’s fucking dense if he doesn’t think you want some loving after hearing it.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“Go listen to it.” Ruby says laughing into her pillow and Craig senses something ominous but chooses to ignore it. He shakes his head, walking back to his room. Of course he knows what he wants to put on that stupid tape. He’s just not going to do that, he won’t put all that old sappy stuff on there because maybe Tweek is already weirded out by him, with the way he left. Craig’s sure he’s got the box of his grandfather’s cassettes, of everything he used to play in the Chrysler, sitting untouched in his closet. He can pull it out and search for something else that’ll help keep the monsters from Tweek because there’s no way he’s going to write ‘be my mate’ on a tape full of stalker-esque romance songs meant for his already paranoid friend.


	11. Monday Part I

“What’s he crying about?”

“Dunno, he was like this when I found him.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No, just figured it was the Coldplay song again.” Craig says, shrugging and flipping through his field guide to insects. He’s had that book forever and Token has repeatedly asked him not to look at it while they’re eating. Craig has repeatedly ignored this request.

“Prick.” Token says in Craig’s direction. Craig flips him off. 

“Oh yeah? What else is new?” Craig mutters to himself. Cyde’s wiping at his face, glaring down at his food. Token sighs and plunks heavily next to Clyde.

“What’s up with you, man?” Token directs at Clyde.

“Dunno.” Clyde mumbles, sniffing. Craig rolls his eyes.

“Do you ever?”

“Fuck off.” Clyde says coldly. Craig raises an eyebrow.

“No thanks.”

“Do you have to be a douchebag everyday? Can’t you take a vacation?” Craig shrugs at Token’s comment. He sets his book down and glances around the cafeteria.

“You cry a lot.” Craig deadpans at Clyde.

“So?”

“So nothing. It’s just something you do. You cry a lot, I don’t. If it was a big deal, you would’ve told me why you were upset. You tell me everything.”

“Not everything.” Clyde gets up and briskly walks out of the cafeteria, pinching his temples like he’s got a rotten headache. Craig eyes after him, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“You’re an asshole.” 

“I’m not an asshole, Token. Not really. I’m tired of all this drama, okay? I just want to read my goddamn book in peace. No drama.”

“I told you not to bring that thing to the table. It’s nasty,” Craig says nothing and opens the book back up again. Token rolls his neck and leans on the table. “You’re still pissed about that fight, aren’t you?”

“You know Tweek didn’t deserve to get the shit beat out of him.” Craig says, looking down at his sandwich.

“Isn’t there a chance, though, just one chance at all that Clyde’s right? I mean, you’ve known Clyde forever. Tweek’s been missing for years and now he comes back? It’s weird that you’re defending him more than Clyde.”

“What, you’re saying that Clyde’s bullshit story is true? You actually believe Tweek stole something from Clyde? And you also believe that stealing deserves a beating that bad? That’s fucked up, Token.” Craig finishes, shaking his head.

“He looks homeless.”

“Maybe he is homeless,” Craig says. “Doesn’t mean he’s a thief.”

“Clyde never beats anyone up.”

“It’s fucked up Tweek was the guy he went after. The guy’s like a toothpick.”

“I know you like him.”

“Christ, I hope there’s a point to this conversation.”

“You have to hear both sides, though. That’s always been your problem. You don’t listen. Besides, the fight happened months ago. Clyde apologized.”

“Yeah, and Tweek still has a nasty scar on his forehead,” Craig starts, frowning. “He didn’t apologize to Tweek.”

“It’s not his fault Tweek’s avoiding him.”

“Kinda is, Token, but whatever.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I barely do.” Craig mumbles, collecting his things and getting up to empty his tray. Token stays sitting and he wonders why he puts up with all this shit. They used to have fun, the three of them. They’d get shitfaced on weekends and watch Clyde try to steal a street sign. 

Craig barely gets drunk with them anymore. They don’t go on any adventures. Yeah, maybe they were foolish and immature, but at least they had great stories. Like the time they shoplifted the empty Wal-Mart, how Craig was cool with stealing shit because it was a big fucked up corporation and it's okay to steal from those places. Token just wanted to feel the rush. They got out with five copies of the same sappy DVD, because they grabbed and felt no remorse, and a bottle of seltzer. Good times. 

Token guesses maybe everyone’s stressed because they don’t even know where they’re going to be next fall. No one wants to stay in this eerie, sometimes shitty small town. At least, Token doesn’t.

He’s never known why his parents decided to move here. Up until this year, he’s glad they did. His best friends are usually the greatest people he knows, even if Craig’s an ass once in a while and Clyde’s a bit of a crybaby.

Things are tense as hell now and senior year was supposed to be the payoff. Kings of the school and all. Now, they all can’t have a conversation without one or more of them storming out, leaving Token sitting alone. He’s beginning to think he should just sit with Kyle and those guys. At least they make it through a whole meal in time enough for Token to finish his goddamn macaroni in the company of others. 

Token waits for a good five minutes.

Craig doesn’t come back to the table and neither does Clyde, though he left all his shit. Clyde probably will forget about it until fourth period, when he needs the notebook and will plead with Token to give him notes. Token picks up Clyde’s backpack, because he’s a good friend and he doesn’t feel like loaning Clyde a pencil later, and makes his way over to Kyle’s table. He pulls up an empty seat, gets some surprised looks from the group, but they nod anyway and seem happy enough to see him.

“‘Sup?” Stan says, through a mouthful of food. Token shrugs.

“Not much. Going to practice today?”

“I always do, Toke, why?” Token shrugs again and finds he has some trouble making conversation while Clyde’s bag is sitting with him, but Clyde’s not around to goof off with.

“Just wondering.”

“Where did your pals get off to?” Kyle asks, peeling his orange in a neat and precise manner that irritates Token only a _little_.

“No idea, Broflovski.” Token digs into his food and Kyle looks thoughtful.

“What’s up with Clyde lately? He was pissed in second period, yelling at Tweek.”

“Is he on drugs? I don’t mean pot,” Stan asks, dunking a french fry into ketchup and swirling it around before popping it in his mouth. Token makes a face. “The hardcore stuff.” Stan says, like this is some hugely illegal, intense situation.  _Man, these guys are so lame when they’re not boozed up,_ Token thinks to himself.

“Probably.” Kyle says, evenly. Stan gets wide-eyed.

“Clyde is? Really?” Token frowns. Where'd Stan get  _that_? 

“Clyde’s not on drugs.” Token states.

“Thought you meant Tweek.” Kyle says. Stan nods, like he finally understands things.

“Oh, no doubt. Of course _Tweek's_  on drugs.” Stan says.

“I wonder if Clyde’s gonna beat up Tweek again. I saw him in second period. Looked pissed as hell.” Kyle repeats and Token totally has the urge to slam his head on the table at their merry-go-round conversation. He doesn’t, though, because he wants to know if his best friend is going to do something totally stupid this afternoon.

“What happened in second period?” Token asks. Kyle leans forward.

“I have no clue what they were really arguing about. Clyde told Tweek to stay away. Maybe he’s a drug dealer? Just like his parents.”

“That would make sense,” Stan agrees and seriously, fuck them. They don’t know Clyde and they hardly know Tweek. No one does. Maybe Token would’ve been in a better mood if he just finished his lunch alone. “What do you think, Toke?” As Token opens up his mouth to answer, to bite back some snark because he still has to be nice, Butters runs up to him, almost comically. Like he used to in elementary school when he had happened upon some juicy bit of gossip. It’s weirdly nostalgic.

“Token, geez, you gotta,” Butters huffs, out of breath. He points to the exit with his thumb. “Geez, Token, you gotta help. Clyde’s awful mad,” Token raises an eyebrow. “The whole, the football field. He’s by the football field.” Token gets up, as quickly as he can because he’s a good friend. No questions asked, Token will help his friends. He just wants to make peace, make the environment forgiving so they can all get along like they were as kids.

Like last year, before Tweek showed up.  

* * *

When he reaches the football field, his first thought is that Clyde’s gonna pummel Craig, after their lunch conversation. Clyde’s pretty much a bulldog and Craig doesn’t really stand a chance. No one does. There are a small number of people crowding by the bleachers, in a lazy circle. Token’s close enough to pick up on the words, now, to hear the shouting that’s going down but he can't see what the circle's surrounding yet.

“G-get your fucking hands o-off me!” Ah, yeah, that’s it. It’s Tweek shouting at someone. “This isn’t, isn’t y-your business, okay? This is between me and him,” Token wades through the crowd. Tweek’s looking like a rabid animal at everyone, wide eyed and twitching. Clyde's on the other end of the spectrum, unusually low and anger-faced. Kevin's standing off to the side, looking a little ruffled. Tweek must have been yelling at Kevin, who kind of thinks everything that Clyde says is god-like or whatever. He just wants a girlfriend like Bebe. “Oh,” Tweek starts bitterly, looking at all the kids who are watching them. “Oh, you’re a-all such beautiful vultures.” He spits. Some of the people look away, a little embarrassed and a quarter of them wander off. 

“They’re staying for round two, if you won’t shut up.” Clyde snarls. Tweek gets up into his face.

“Do i-it. Do it if th-that makes you feel better. Just r-remember something, if you can,” Tweek starts, pacing and jittering. He swings his arms wide around him. “That I don’t forget. So you better m-make sure I’m dead this time.”

“What makes you think that I forgot?” Clyde says, with a shove. Tweek stumbles, but looks stubborn as hell. “Huh? What makes you think that?”

“You left m-me. You left me and we w-were in it together.”

“You think I forgot?”

“You d-did! The fucking, the, the _cards_ , Clyde! Did they put a chip in you? Is that it? H-have they come back?” Tweek asks, frenzied.

“What the hell are you talking about, Tweek?” Clyde asks, exasperatedly. Tweek looks at him desperately.

“Aliens,” His mutters and Clyde laughs, humorlessly, it seems. Tweek glares. “Don’t l-laugh.”

“You’re fucking crazy. You’re a goddamn looney.”

“I’m n-not crazy. That’s what happened.” Tweek says, firmly.

“You wanna know what _really_ happened, Tweek?" Clyde drops his voice to a low whisper, muttering close enough so only Tweek hears. "Your shitty parents lost us over fifty thousand dollars to some pervert in Nevada, okay? That’s what really happened so will you just shut the fuck up about it already and leave me alone?” Tweek’s stunned into some kind of stupor and he blinks rapidly, straightens himself as if a thin wire is pulling up his spine.

“N-no, no.” He disagrees, shakily and Clyde paces.

“Jesus Christ, Tweek.” He wheezes.

“I remember th-the light beam. They, they had alien fingers! I’m not n-nuts.” Tweek's pulling at his hair and he hasn't done that in a long time. "I know, they were e-experimenting," Tweek looks at the ground. He nods. "I, I've r-read about it. W-with the knife, and, and they were conditioning u-u----"

“Just shut up, okay?”

“Don’t t-tell me what to do.  _N_ _o_ , they dissected us,” Tweek is trying to convince himself more than Clyde at this point and it’s a very sad expression he’s making. But then it turns on Clyde, into some kind of anger. “You left me.”

“I was ten.” Clyde says, clenching his jaw to and attempting to bury the guilt he still feels everyday when he looks at his wrist and is glad that they didn’t fuck him up as bad as they did Tweek. 

“So w-was I,” Tweek retorts. “H-how would we have escaped, if you’re t-telling the truth? They wouldn’t h-have, they would’ve _killed_ us, man! If y-you’re not lying,” Tweek frowns. “You left me.” He repeats, clenching his hair. “No, n-no, you’re wrong. The, th-the time, code’s off, I calculated, a hundred and thirty eight times, twice i-in my head today and I wr-wrote it on paper, fifteen tim---” Tweek’s rambling at Clyde, looking more than mental so Clyde reacts before he thinks. He punches, getting Tweek in a left hook to his cheek. The scene is all too familiar. Tweek hits back, this time, though and it actually stings.

“You _bastard_.” Clyde hisses and jumps at Tweek, knocking him over. Tweek’s fighting back, though, but Clyde’s strong. He works out twice a day. He doesn’t eat Mars Bars anymore. Clyde’s strong. Clyde won’t get hurt again. This time, Clyde aims mostly for things he can break easily. He’s trying to see how many noises he can get Tweek to make, besides the splitting of ulnas and ribs. It’s sick, it’s twisted, Clyde feels disgusting but he doesn’t stop. He’s not sure how long the bystanders let him pummel Tweek for. When he looks up, nearly everyone is gone. Late for class, probably, like Clyde is. Like Tweek is. 

Craig is roughly pulling Clyde off Tweek, using all his strength and pumped up with adrenaline and _when did he get here?_ Token’s around Clyde, at his side now and oh, maybe that’s how Craig could have pulled him off. 

“Clyde, what the fuck is your problem?” Craig’s nearly shouting in his face as he pushes him to the ground, away from Tweek, who’s coughing up blood and trying to sit up like his guts aren’t dying. Clyde’s got his one-track mind and he stumbles to get back up, still huffing. “I don’t want to fight you.” Clyde makes a sour face.

“But you will?” Clyde asks, seriously. “Over him?” Clyde points to Tweek, who’s managed to sit up, but he’s humming, spitting up blood and Craig hopes that none of his teeth are loose. They’re all alone on the football field now, just the four of them and Clyde feels so small again. He feels young and mostly stupid.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Craig states, glowering a little through clenched teeth. “But you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

“Fuck off, Craig! You don’t understand this shit.” Clyde starts getting up again and Token rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Clyde,” Token begins, calmly. “I think you should stop, man.” Clyde would stop. He would’ve stopped, if it was just Token there, asking him to. If Craig wasn’t stuck there like an obstacle that needed to be pushed down. Clyde stands up, aims towards Tweek and Craig gets him in the nose with this smashing of knuckles, before he moves two feet. These fingers jammed into a fist that don't even think twice about punching him. His nose bleeds and Clyde’s first response is in the stinging of his eyes. Clyde stills, unsure of what just happened. It’s some kind of weird standoff. Craig’s showing a lot more emotion than he normally does, his eyebrows are drawn together, up, and he looks incredibly shocked. Like he’s surprised he did that to Clyde. Clyde’s surprised, too. He’s never really seen Craig’s eyes go that wide.

“You broke my nose.” Clyde says, frowning, through streaming blood and probably some tears.

“Pinch it.” Craig says, simply. Token looks between everyone. Tweek’s sitting on the ground, still-faced and he’s got a split lip, a bad black eye and fresh blood speckled and smeared all over his freckles. There’s some cached up blood in his platinum hair, too, like a nasty head wound and Token feels like he should’ve stopped the fight sooner. Tweek looks like he’s in a lot of pain.

“Fuck you.” Clyde says, staring at Craig, clenching his fist. Token frowns.

“Will you two assholes just knock it off?” Token says loudly. “Stay put. Don’t kill each other, please,” He directs at them. It’s all Clyde can do to hold himself back. Craig’s crazed a bit, still looking startled like a deer. Token walks over to Tweek. “You breathing, dude?”

“Always. J-just like when we were kids,” Tweek says, quietly, staring at the sky. It’s cotton candy blue and pink. Token follows his vision. He crouches next to Tweek. “You wanted to eat that sky, didn’t you? I did.”

“We should get you to the hospital.” Tweek flinches.

“N-no, I, no,” Tweek starts to get up and he bites back the pain, making a bitter airy noise. “ _Fuck_.” Craig hears that sound and it seems to jump him back into his senses.

“Shit, Tweek,” Craig mutters and nearly jogs over to him. Clyde stays put. “Buddy, did you break something?”

“I’m n-not going to the hospital,” Tweek gazes over at Clyde. “Finish the job, won’t you?” Token looks annoyed at that comment.

“Dude.” Token says carefully. Craig looks over Tweek's leg.

“Where does it hurt?”

“I’m f-fine. I should get candy, though. I n-need candy.” Tweek says, dazed. Clyde looks ready to lose his shit again.

“Come on.” Craig says, worriedly. He places an arm around Tweek and tries to hoist him up to stand.

“Goddammit, I can t-take care of myself!” Tweek shouts, pulling away. He stands on his own, making uncomfortable faces. “I’m not i-incompetent,” Clyde snorts. Tweek sends him a nasty death glare. “L-laugh all you want, Clyde, but I’m st-still the only one who can understand what y-you’ve been through.” Clyde frowns, wipes at his bloody nose and gives Tweek shove before he stalks off towards the woods behind the school. Tweek stumbles back, landing on the ground with a grunt. Token looks at them all, somewhat confused and angry that he’s _this_ confused. He offers Tweek a sympathetic nod.

“I should probably see what’s up with him.” Token says, squinting at the sky. Token follows Clyde’s direction. Tweek tries to get up but can’t do it without it hurting and he begins blinking rapidly, to rid himself of furious tears.

“Tweek,” Craig starts. “It’s okay to take help sometimes.”

“I’m n-not a baby.” Tweek grumbles.

“Yeah, you’re just a fucking hot head with a deathwish.” Craig says, with a small smile that lacks happiness but Tweek finds the slightest bit of comfort in the fact that Craig’s trying to lighten the mood. After a few seconds of twitching, Tweek accepts some help because he really can’t make it far. Craig pulls him up carefully and Tweek leans on him, blooming up his coat with blood but whatever.

“I didn’t p-pass out this time.” He mumbles against Craig’s coat. Tweek's voice sounds in his ears but Craig has to push down the damn moths and roll his eyes at the statement.

“Yeah, I’m so proud of you,” The cotton candy sky is taking a pink turn. They’re going to miss their last two classes but one of them’s just P.E. Craig is done with school anyway, on the mental level. He adjusts his hold on Tweek’s shoulder. “Where’s your bag?”

“Don’t have it t-today.” Tweek croaks.

“You got your tape player?”

“Y-yeah,” Tweek says, touching his coat pocket. “Totally. Yeah. Why?”

"Ah, no reason. Just, if you can make it the rest of the way without passing out, I have another cassette for you."

"R-really?" Tweek asks, lighting up visibly. Craig could let some moths leave his body, he thinks, if he leaned in a little and nope. Nope.

"Yeah, if you want."

"O-of course, I, uh, I want it. Th-thank you." Tweek rushes out. He makes noise again that sounds strained and Craig grimaces.

“I can’t believe he did this to you. Again,” Craig says, allowing his brain to process the events more and it only makes him angrier. Tweek shudders against him. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ cold.” He says, disbelieving Tweek.

“N-no,” Tweek starts, seeing how the school is far in the distance behind them. How it’s just a backdrop, really. “No.”

“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”

“G-gee, is it obvious?” Tweek asks, limping alongside Craig, his hand curling over Craig’s shoulder. “Where are w-we going?”

“My house, if you won’t go to a hospital.”

“I w-won’t.”

“Huh, stubborn much? Good thing I know how to set a broken bone.”

“Y-you think it’s b-broken?” Tweek asks, wide-eyed.

“No, Tweek, I don’t,” Craig says, grimly. “You shouldn’t even be walking on it, though.”

“O-oh, want me to c-call a cab with just my l-looks, cricket?” Tweek asks, scoffing. Craig stops moving. Tweek almost trips coming to a halt. Craig faces Tweek, steadying him a little. He could be doing something  _really_ dumb but he could also spare his friend some misery. Tweek's looking at him with a purpling eye and it's a bit swollen but the other one is surprisingly clear. Craig's heart starts expanding vessels up his throat and threatens to leap. Craig's gotta shove that stuff away, though, because Tweek's a mess.

“Okay, I need you not to freak out on me.” 

“Wh-what?” Tweek stutters. In a quick movement, Craig picks Tweek up and carries him like he would an injured animal. _Or bridal style_ , Ruby would taunt him and she could shove it where the sun doesn't shine for all Craig cares. “U-uh, what the fuck, dude?” Tweek groans. He’s done this before with Ruby and Clyde, anyway, when they’re _both_ shitfaced. Clyde he dropped. Tweek is much lighter than Clyde and Ruby, to be honest, making the journey remarkably faster without all his slow limping. And alcohol. “Th-this is embarrassing, m-man. I, I c-can walk.” Tweek says, closing his eyes. 

“You shouldn’t walk on it. What’d I tell you earlier? It’s fine to accept help. Just hold on and stop complaining about my generosity here.” Craig says, very red but that's okay, right? Tweek's red faced, too and sure, it's because of the blood but Craig's is, too. 

_Yeah, that makes sense, dummy. You used to be smart before he came along._

“I don’t n-need you telling me what’s f-fine.” Tweek mutters, though he puts his hands around Craig’s shoulder, feeling kind of useless. Tweek coughs and Craig’s glad it’s no longer bloody.

“Just an opinion, asshole.” Craig breathes. He can see his house in the distance and he speeds up a little. The goal of right now is not to stare at Tweek, not to focus on how he's looking up at Craig now and how his glassy eyes reflect that pretty light and his constellation freckles are so much closer and how he could count them, how nice Tweek's knuckles feel winding around Craig's coat and --- nope. Nope, the goal of right now is to set Tweek’s bones right, make sure he’s not bleeding and try to convince him to go to the ER because Craig only knows how to do so much. That’s the goal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone!!! okay, so, i promise you all that tweek will stop being so oblivious. the next chapter is gonna be mostly clyde and then the one after that should be so overly sappy that you will drown in the goop. i have written three different versions of some shamefully fluffy garbage. the next two chapters all take place on the same day for once, also!
> 
> i know this chapter was kind of a bummer, huh? so i'm sorry. but as always, i love to hear from you guys!!!! and if you wanna see more stuff, lemme know! this story is nearly ending and i know i've said that for a while and why should you believe me hahah but seriously 
> 
> i think it is just gonna be these next two maybe three chapters because shit guys i totally should start writing outlines this is a long ass story
> 
> <3 thanks dudes!!


	12. Monday Part II

Clyde could remember a lot of things. He shouldn’t remember most of them. 

It clicked. It click, clicked. That’s what Clyde hears most. It was easy to play spies with Tweek, Tweek was good at hiding out. 

They didn’t get Tweek out.   

Losing wasn’t ever an option, not Texas Holdem, those knives to their backs. Cigar-smelling middle-aged men, cheap rum breath too close,  _ just take the candy and do what they say _ , hands drowning in luxury soaps. Forced bitter, ugly wine with their Oreos. The threat of  _ losing _ , wondering if losing was ever an option, if winning meant  _ this _ , why would losing be so bad? 

Losing meant physical loss, that’s why it was worse. Twice, something you can never replace. Things you’re taught to keep to yourself. Winning meant Mars Bars, sickly sweet  _ Mars Bars _ in place of fists, knives, rough hands. If you were good at the  _ game _ , Mars Bars and they went easy.  _ Light like feathers, that’s all _ , they lied. They promised it wouldn’t hurt. 

_ Unless  _ you ran, unless you lost, unless you breathed wrong, unless you screamed.  Tweek screamed a lot.  

It’s Monday night and Clyde’s still huffing, thinking how fucked up this situation has become. How he didn’t want  _ anyone  _ to know anything and instead of being calm, Clyde flew at Tweek like a freight train in front of half the school by the football field. Full of power with this one-tracked mind and Clyde was still so small. How was he so fucking small? He’d stood in that football field more times than he could count, always feeling like a king. Tweek, that ninety-eight pound weakling today, made Clyde feel like he was eight years old again, like he could only reach three feet. Clyde was still just a rotten child, having a tantrum because things didn’t go how he wanted and oh, y _ ou  _ were _ a rotten kid, you ran. _

_ They’re going to sell me, they’re going to bet me up to the monsters. I’m just, just leverage. I’m a bargaining chip.  _

_ What would the monsters want with you? What would they want?  _

_ I don’t know why they want me, I don’t know, but they want me. They cover your mouth so you can’t scream. They tell you it’s fine but it’s not. They keep candy in a jar that only they can reach. They have presents but they’re never pleasant.  _

_Monsters don’t exist, Tweek,_ Clyde told Tweek. He told him, he thought it rang true. He swore it rang true. 

But they did --- they  _ do  _ exist. Monsters, they still lurk under the veil of money, they  _ grope _ , fuck fresh bills, count the old ones, buy expensive whores when stealing sex feels like too much of a hassle and sit in luxury chairs. Clyde won’t forget the monsters, even when Bebe smiles golden, he won’t forget where hands go. He won’t forget that monsters look like people,  _ are  _ just people, at the end of the day. 

In the woods, after he gave Tweek broken ribs and bloody coughs, Clyde kept walking until he scared all the animals away. He didn’t mean to shout. He didn’t mean to cry so much when Token found him. He didn’t mean to scare anyone, originally. He just wanted Tweek to shut up, he wanted the squirrels in the woods to shut up, too, and rage is the only way you silence someone. That’s what Clyde’s learned.

Beating up childhood friends, childhood friends that stutter and don’t really get in anyone else’s way, is not typical behavior of Clyde. Clyde’s a nice guy,  _ really  _ nice. He’s the kid who _stops_ bullies and roots for the underdog even though he’s  _ always _ been the topdog.

Clyde watches birds with his dad most weekends. It’s his dad’s hobby and Clyde couldn’t give a shit what the birds do, but he loves those days anyway. They talk, him and his dad, popping back seltzers, about life. About baseball, old family stories that Clyde’s heard a million times but is willing to hear just  _ one more time _ , because the passion and pride his dad’s got. He won’t buy candy necklaces anymore and Clyde still misses those days of Yoohoo, of  _ pine cone _ baseball where their made up rules were okay. Where imagination alone could protect you. His father still finds new jokes, usually with coffee in hand, making breakfast and Clyde loves him so much in these moments, even when the breakfast’s burnt or not healthy enough.

Clyde turned eighteen a month ago. He already feels like a burden. 

Clyde doesn’t have panic attacks. Before this year, he wouldn’t allow himself to think about the abduction, about all the money his father wasted to get his moronic kid out of the grasp of those filthy rich perverts. 

Nightmares come quick now, like a snapping neck, like a slap to the face. 

Like that knife to his wrist.

And it’s all Tweek’s goddamn fault. Clyde  _ was _ excelling.

Clyde even has a beautiful girlfriend, an amazing and talented violinist, with these lengthy features and slightly calloused left fingertips. Her nails are always painted seashell blue and she has the most infectious laugh. Clyde has a wonderful girlfriend that can’t touch him anymore. Her touch feels  _ immoral _ now, so fucking inappropriate, especially when she reaches for his belt. He pushes her hand away. That seashell nail-polished hand of the girl he loves. Clyde feels warped. He feels used, disturbed. Tainted. Worn and he’s just damaged goods.  _ They _ touched him  _ there _ , below his spine and yeah, they touched his arm a lot. They touched his face and isn’t that the worst part? 

It’s been eight years. Eight fucking years and even though he showers twice a day, he never feels clean. 

Fifteen years of friendship and Clyde never wants Craig to show his face around him again. On the surface, Clyde knows that’s unavoidable. They go to the same school. They have the same friends. Clyde really hopes those guys, Token included, will let Craig stew on his own. On his own fucked up little island, where he can conceal everything that happens to him. Where he can lie about the damn hospital trips because, really? Clyde might not be the smartest guy around, but he’s not a complete idiot. He knows Craig’s had his fair share of disagreements with his parents and he knows how bad of a drunk Mr. Tucker is. He's seen him swing that beer bottle when he hangs out with Craig. He's seen the same bottle broken, Craig with a stupidly noticeably new scar and why the fuck can't Craig share anything with him?

Clyde guesses he’s been holding onto a lot of resentment and god, it burns. It’s wrenching. That punch from Craig was something he’d never have expected. Clyde didn't expect that the guy who stood up for him in sixth grade when he got bullied, the guy who, beneath snarky comments about how foolish he is, stayed up late nights helping Clyde pass his science and math classes. Clyde never thought he’d be on the receiving end of one of Craig’s punches. It doesn’t hurt, not physically anyway. Craig used to geek out as much as he was capable of showing with Clyde, about all those old _Star Trek_ shows. Clyde told Craig  _ everything _ . Everything that he could, everything that was his to share and it’s not much, but hey, he expected the same from Craig. Is it wrong to ask that from a friend? Is wrong to not want punches from your best friend? The most raw display of emotion Craig’s ever shown in front of Clyde, before today, happened years ago. 

It was all because of that goddamn looney. It’s always been because of  _ him,  _ of Tweek  _ who played spies with Clyde, who stole penny candy with Clyde, who was a partner in crime but cried because he felt guilty and made them return the candy because the poor store clerk would’ve lost her job but it was only thirty cents and jesus Tweek was a sweet kid before they fucked him up _

Eight years ago, Craig broke down and cried. The face looked wrong on him, pinched up and Clyde guesses Craig didn’t realize he was there. It took him a minute to see Clyde,  _ standing in the corner, missing trust, missing innocence and missing his best friend too  _ but Craig just stuck his head on his knees, took off his hat and covered his face in it. He doesn’t make sounds when he cries. He just gets glassy eyed and tries to suppress it but you can’t hold that much in you for long. Tweek was gone, back then, and Craig had to move on. He had to grow up, live his life without the prospect,  _ escape,  _ of space adventures and goddamn aliens. 

Tweek was gone. Clyde had to move on.

Tweek’s been back now a year, though, and it’s like Craig’s a goddamn child. They have their secrets again. They have their time and Clyde’s not part of it, even though he feels like Tweek’s spilling all those lies, spinning webs about something that didn’t happen the way he remembers it. Craig’s gaze never leaves Tweek in his oversized army parka. He’s so dopey, so fucking infatuated that Clyde would normally be ecstatic that his monkish best friend _finally_  had a crush. But the fact that  it’s _Tweek_ that’s got Craig so damn giddy is the problem. 

That’s not why Clyde started the fight, the fight that he’s sure ended his fifteen year friendship with Craig punching him. Tweek’s somehow convinced Craig, skeptical and far from stupid Craig, that aliens exist. Aliens. Craig would help, Tweek said. Craig believed him, someone fucking _finally_ believed him. 

“ _ You know what really happened? Your shitty parents lost us over a fifty thousand dollar bet to some rich perv in Nevada.”  _ That’s what Clyde told Tweek, he replays in his head, that’s the gist of the truth. That’s most of it. That’s all he can tolerate saying. 

Then he threw the punch because Tweek argued with him, saying it wasn’t true because of the fucking time code and the money and how would they escaped if that were true and no, no, it was aliens because he remembers the beam of light. 

Clyde doesn’t remember that. He remembers how business men look out of their suits. 

Yeah, Tweek would’ve argued more, if Clyde had let him. Tweek would’ve spewed that he remembers that too, because their hands were dead cold and uncomfortable and so far from human. Tweek would’ve screeched. Tweek would’ve screeched, all too much like how he did back then. Tweek would’ve screeched, if he could, that humans can’t be that cruel, no one’s that cruel unless they’re aliens. Unless they’re monsters so that’s what they are. 

Clyde couldn’t let Tweek scream any of that shit, though. He punched, he punched and he kept going until Token and Craig had managed to yank him off Tweek. Until huffing large breaths, he let his mind think for the first time in a while and all that appeared was,  _ shit, did I kill the bastard? Is it over? _

Tweek’s gonna be fine, apparently. Just bloodied and broken in some places. Craig’s pissed but who the fuck cares anymore? Craig’s not pissed actually. Craig’s far past pissed, he’s gone into a shutdown mode. No fly zone. 

Sitting in Token’s basement now, Clyde could crush the empty can of PBR with his fist. Slam until his knuckles turn gangrene yellow and gutted out like a good injury. Like an excuse he would’ve used to get some attention from Bebe, a year ago, when he could still stand her touch. Clyde could reach around the table, pull another and wash that fucker down. He could wash down the rough memories, bullshit sights and sounds and fuck those smells until he only sees blurry red. He guesses it’s a good thing that Token cares enough about him to let him sleep on the couch. 

His dad shouldn’t see him like this, his dad shouldn’t have to worry so much.

Today stings. It cuts like a bitch. 

Clyde’s still blubbering, hating everything that reminds him of Oreos and fucking sweets.

No, he hates  _ Tweek _ . That’s what he hates. He does. He hates that kid a helluva lot and he could pretend that crushed beer can is his face, and he could also pretend that Tweek never made it into his life years ago, that he never washed up. Clyde could pretend that Tweek never split his imagination open, poured salt and lemon juice in fucking wounds this year and made things seem normal that weren’t always safe. 

He could pretend. He’s usually good at pretending things are fine, most nights. Tonight is not one of those nights. No, instead, the world feels like it was a tank built to drown him and car headlights flood his sight, despite sitting in a well furnished basement. The hangout room. The game room. Tonight, Clyde's ribs feel torn open and he can’t stop the stupid blubbering.

How could Craig choose that whackjob over Clyde? How could Craig side with _him_? Clyde’s been there for years, he never left, never went away. He made it through all this bullshit and still stood next to Craig, still tried to cheer him up those times he was positive that Mr. Tucker had beat Craig for some remark he didn’t mean to make. He stood by him all the time and yeah, they used to be so close. Clyde’s explained everything he understands to Craig, which isn’t a lot but it’s what friends do. 

They explain things when no one else can. They’re honest and they’re loyal. 

Craig’s not a friend.

Clyde’s so fucking thankful that he has Token as a friend. Token’s always been a decent guy, he’s always backed Clyde up. He’s tolerated his shit, even when he cries uselessly over stupid things like children's books where parents tell their kids how much they love them or commercials about life insurance for old people. Token didn’t even blink an eye when he found Clyde screaming in the forest this afternoon. He just let him punch at things, even kicked over some rotting wood for him to hit. Said it was healthy or something. The fuck should Clyde know? He’s not the smart one. 

“Wanna cry about it some more, man?” Token asks now, cracking open his second beer and Clyde’s not the slightest bit ashamed that the one he’s holding will be his sixth. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Clyde mumbles.

“Who?”

“I’m gonna kill him, I swear. That psycho bastard.” 

“As your future attorney, I’d advise against that. Murder trials are a bitch.” Token says with a slow nod, looking off to the distance. Clyde wonders what he really thinks, what he really feels like. If he really feels Clyde’s unreasonable. 

“No, no, you know who’s a bitch?” Clyde asks, gulping down this beer and it’s already nearly done. Wasn’t it fresh a minute ago? Token looks on, unimpressed and tight lipped. “You know who’s a little bitch? Craig. That’s who.”

“Dude, how are you still so worked up?”

“How come you aren’t? He’s supposed to be our friend!”

“Yeah,” Token begins, realizing that Clyde’s in the whining stage of drunkenness. Best to reason with him. To be honest, Token doesn’t really know what the damage is. Craig  _ was _ pissed at Clyde, though and maybe he didn’t deserve it. Who knows who’s right anymore? “He  _ is _ a douchebag but I’m not gonna waste my precious time complaining about his ass anymore.”

“I can’t believe him.”

“When has Craig ever done anything that makes sense?”

“Would you hate him if he came back? I would.”

“Don’t you already hate him?” Clyde doesn’t say anything and Token continues. “Look, he’s just,” Token is concentrating, trying to pull up anything he can, a reason that would explain why everything blew up in their faces. He can’t, mostly cause his dumbass friends have left him out of the loop on nearly everything. “Craig's just going through some shit, I guess.” 

“Like what?” Clyde asks, still blubbery. Token sighs. “He never told us squat and now he’s telling Tweek  _ everything _ . I bet that, that.” Clyde begins and slams his fist back into the table. Token cringes. It’s his mom’s coffee table. Expensive walnut. It’s a nice thing. 

“Dude, I know you’re angry but don’t make the walnut suffer.”

“I bet that  _ psycho _ ,” Clyde inhales sharply, gripping his beer, blatantly ignoring Token’s plead not to break the coffee table. “I bet that psycho told Craig.”

“Told him what?” 

“Friends don’t leave friends.” Clyde growls and Token’s a little taken aback by this. Clyde never has sounded more serious in his life. Token’s looking for a tell that will let him know Clyde’s in there and he’s not just a ball of rage. 

“He hasn’t  _ left _ us. He did call twice. That’s a big deal for him.”

“What, so he should get a reward for crawling back? Nope. No.” 

“I don’t know.”

“I’m gonna shred him.”

“Tweek or Craig? What did he  _ really _ do to you? Why are you so pissed?”

“Token, are you fucking kidding me? Don’t you know what he did? Have you seen my goddamn face?”

“You started the fight. I’m not giving you any more sympathy. You’ve reached your max with me for the night, man.”

“He punched me over that basket case! He’s out of control!” 

“ _ You  _ beat the shit out of Tweek. For the second time.”

“Token, that’s not...that’s bull.” Clyde rushes out, clearly peeved. 

“I saw it happen, Clyde.”

“Did you answer when Craig called? Did he tell you anything?”

“‘Course I answered, man. He asked if your head was okay. Concussion wise and also, judgement wise. He was a bit sarcastic, actually.”

“That bitch. That punk-ass bitch.” 

“He has no idea what happened between you two. I don’t either, Clyde,” Token points out and Clyde stares off, darkly. "You really let Tweek have it. I mean, what did he do to you? Help me understand, man."

“Nothing happened.”

“Okay, well, this is the second time you’ve kicked the shit out of Tweek so. You know.”

“He’s fucking annoying.”

“You need a better reason than that. You could’ve killed him.”

“He’s always pestering, you know? Like, ‘ _ why don’t you believe in aliens _ ?’ But, like, really? Fuck that, crazy.”

“Did you beat him up because he doesn’t believe in aliens? That’s not a good reason either. I didn’t even  know  _you_ believed in aliens.” Token asks, confused.

“No,  _ he _ believes in them! He’s crazy. He’s just a liar. He’s a goddamn liar.”

“So, you kicked his skinny ass because he believes in aliens and you don’t?” When Token simplifies this, boils it all down,  _ like he always was so good at,  _ Clyde feels stupid for the third time today. The first time he felt dumb was this morning in math, when Tweek solved this complex algebra Clyde loudly complained about not understanding and passed him the answer, even though Clyde shoots daggers Tweek whenever he catches his eyes. The second time was when Tweek looked off at the sky, dead-eyed, bruised and that sight made Clyde feel so fucking small. And now the third time. Token is looking at him patiently, trying calmly to point out his hypocraycies. “Tweek doesn’t do much at all, honestly. He keeps to himself.”

“Whatever, Token. Whatever.” Clyde deflates, sticking his head in the couch and lifting the beer can above himself. He tosses it blindly, listening for the clattering of it against the tile of Token’s basement. Token watches it roll, skeptically. 

“Was that your fifth?”

“Why does it matter? You’re rich as fuck.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much. You turn into a dick.”

“Don’t answer if Craig calls again. Don’t.”

“You  _ used _ to be a fun drunk.” Token grumbles.

“I  _ am _ fun.” Clyde drawls, unconvincingly. 

“No, you’re not. We used to all place bets on you. ‘Member all the stupid shit we got you to do? You stole from a Panera one time.”

“Well, you know what, Token? Life is just a punch in the balls.”

“You really feel that way?” Token asks, tight frown.

“Yeah, Token, don’t you see my fucking face?” Clyde says, all muffled and broken. Token has enough compassion and trust to believe his usually goofy friend. He has enough loyalty to side with the guy that’s always made a huge fuss on his birthday. No matter what Clyde does, to Token, he will still be the kid who danced like Jagger to cheer him up after Wendy broke his heart in the eighth grade, making a fool of himself in front of the afterschool crowd. Token has a difficult time believing that same guy, the one who gets stuck holding doors for people because he's damn nice, is the one who cruelly beat Tweek up for no reason. Token’s sure there has to be an explanation. He doubts he's going to get it from Clyde tonight, though.

“Not now. It’s in a pillow,” Token yawns, shaking his head. “I gotta sleep, dude. You need anything ‘sides,” Token kicks at the beer cans left. “Fuel?”

“No. Just, shut off the lights, would you? Please.” Clyde lifts his head from the pillow and looks around, eyeing the ceiling.

“Sure. Yeah. Sure. Clyde,” Token begins, stretching and studying the anger that’s still prominent in his best friend. “You  _ know  _ that you could tell me why you’re behaving like a piece of shit, right?” Clyde’s face is still streaming, big tears and he doesn’t even care enough to wipe them away. He shrugs pathetically. 

“It’s,” Clyde begins and briefly, Token feels like he might finally tell him. Clyde used to get this depressed when he reached a certain amount of beers. He’d look like there was something he needed to let go of and Token would just wait but no sound ever came. Nowadays, it only takes him four beers to get to this stage. “Don’t push it.” Clyde resolves, like usual and Token heaves a small sigh.

“Sure, man.” Token shuts off the lights. He climbs the stairs back to his own room and wonders why his teddy bear of a best friend has turned into such a jaded asshole.


	13. Monday Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! so i'm super sorry for the late chapter! but i spent a lot of time with this fic and i worked out some problems so hopefully they'll come along smoothly! sorry this chapter isn't as sappy as i promised. :( but honestly, they're getting there, i swear. i dunno why, but this chapter was really tough to get through? i dunno, but the good news is that i'm nearly done with three other chapters! so i hope to update faster. sorry for this one, it's kind of crappy but it needs to happen to get to the other parts. :/
> 
> thanks for sticking with me through this story! your comments do really help me out, btw so if you guys wanna see something more or are confused, please lemme know! thanks dudessss. :3

“You _could_ have run,” Tweek thinks about running when his legs don’t pull, don’t shriek like they did as a kid, if he walks miles. He thinks about running when he looks at Craig, when he watches that concentrated gaze from afar. When Craig doesn’t realize he’s there, Tweek thinks about bounding down train tracks, down that old twisting steel and wood road where he scraped his knees up playing _spy_ games with Clyde. He thinks he could make it far, maybe go to Nebraska, Montana, even _Alaska_. Somewhere _normal_ , cold and rural. When Craig catches his view, when Craig’s green sun-speckled eyes hold in warmth and his dimples start to show, Tweek’s sure he won’t ever get out of this shitty town. “Tweek,” Craig says his name so softly and yeah, Tweek guesses he's never leaving. “How come you didn’t run?”

“F-fuck that, it’s,” Tweek feels his lungs starting to cave in on him as Craig's expecting some reasonable answer. Tweek can’t find logic anymore. He’s been thrown off his pattern. Maybe it’s Craig’s fault that his math is all wrong now, _maybe_ it’s Craig’s stupidly calming voice that distracts him so his numbers don’t add up anymore, but he _still_ solved that tough algebra problem this morning and he passed the answer over to Clyde, a friendship offering. Clyde still beat him, though and Tweek's starting to think Clyde legitimately hates his guts. _Maybe it's something about you, maybe you're just crooked and fucked up like Clyde says. Maybe he doesn't care about the abduction anymore, maybe he's fine and it's simple; he just hates you._ “I didn’t have the energy.” Tweek states, barely sure that counts for an answer.

“Why did you take it like that? You just gave up. Why didn’t you run? You know what happened last time.”

“Running screams, _losers_ run,” Tweek flinches. “I don’t know. I walk,” Craig once more looks at Tweek, pretending he’s just assessing him for damage, even though it’s been at least five hours since the fight and he’s done nothing but stare at Tweek this entire time. Craig’s already bandaged his friend up. Craig’s good at playing doctor but only because he’s a real fucking pro at staying in one place to get multiple beatings, too. Tweek’s jaw is purple bruised, with a tint of green. At least he's not missing any teeth. Tweek’ll still have that same pearly crooked grin Craig’s totally stoked about, whenever it happens. It’s probably not going to happen today, though, because Clyde _really_ went hard on Tweek and he’s only just calming down. Tweek flinches again. Craig watches enthralled as those constellation freckles crease under his eye. “ _What_? S-stop staring like that, man, it f-freaks me the hell out.”

“Sorry,” Craig looks away. “What doesn’t freak you out?” Craig asks, seriously. He feels awful for asking as he watches Tweek shuffle his legs, looking mildly disappointed by the question. They’re sitting in Craig’s bedroom, waiting out a storm and it’s five in the afternoon. Chilled rain slackens up the leftover snow, bringing up only mud. Nothing's sprouting yet, not really but the season is warming up. It’s nearly summer, Craig can feel it glowing in the distance. Soon the little insects will be poking their heads out of corners, of flowers and trees. Craig can barely wait. “Did Clyde kill the tape player this time?” Tweek shakes his head slowly, smiling a little. To Craig’s dismay, Tweek doesn’t let the smile reach his teeth.  

“ _No_. Th-that, I totally would’ve f-fought him over that!” Tweek says with conviction.

“Why would you stick up for some hunk of plastic and not your face? There’s only one face like that, buddy.” Craig responds, ears reddening but he’s trying to get over his awkwardness. It helps a helluva lot that Tweek is incredibly oblivious to his infatuation.

“I,” Tweek looks away. “It's n-not _just_ a hunk of plastic,” Tweek fumbles, furrowing his brows like he's trying to figure out the meaning of life. He taps his fingers. “Y-you shouldn’t h-have punched Clyde.”

“Tweek,” Craig scoffs. “Did you see what he doing to you? He wasn’t going to stop.” Craig frowns, still amazed that he hit Clyde. It's surreal and Craig feels like shit about it, despite the fact that Clyde was using Tweek like a punching bag and isn't that a  _way_ shittier thing to do? Craig can still feel it on his knuckles, Clyde's face, and Craig can count which ones of his fingers aided in breaking his best friend’s nose. Craig heard the snap. He _was_ the snap. 

“I, I knew g-goddamn well what was h-happening,” Tweek says, firmly. “I had it u-under control.”

“Yeah, it _really_ looked that way.”

“Hey, you sh-should stick to things you understand,” Tweek barks. “Okay?” Tweek adds, guard crumbling when he looks at Craig. Tweek bites his lip, the good end that’s not damaged yet and goes at it like it’s his goal to scab over all the undamaged parts. “O-okay?” Tweek says once more, nervous and lacking animosity.

“Then teach me? Help me understand _this_ ,” Craig states dryly. “Cause I have no fucking clue what you did to make Clyde so mad at you. I’ve never seen him like that. I’ve barely seen him mad. I don’t punch people,” Craig guiltily admits, picking a loose thread in his sweatshirt until it spirals out. “I don’t punch my best friends.”

“I t-told him about the aliens,” Tweek mumbles, blinking rapidly, looking at the wall. “I d-didn't _ask_ you to punch him.” Craig’s house is remarkably shitty and unfinished, with gaps and holes in the basement that leak out heat in the winter and it's a freezer inside, when the heat goes. The cold gets locked in, shuts everyone up and never knows when spring begins. In Craig's room, on the wall Tweek's glaring holes into, Craig's got a mass produced poster of the cosmos and a detailed drawing of some kind of bug. Is it a botfly? A cicada? No, it doesn’t have wings. Must be a beetle or something, Tweek thinks, realizing that he knows more bugs than he thought.

“It’s a cockroach,” Craig says, seeming to notice Tweek’s stare. “Ruby drew it. I told her that if either of us finds one in this house, it’s a ticket out. For a little while, at least.”

“ _Oh_.” 

“Yeah.” Craig hums and he knows there’s so much more that he probably won’t ever find out about Tweek and Clyde's situation. It didn’t used to bother him, not knowing _everything_ , but it’s become some kind of compulsion since he got to High School. He has to know everything about the earth and what lives on it and how life functions because if he knows _that_ , maybe he can explain why his parents don’t love him like other parents love their kids.

“You d-did promise me a, uh, a cassette,” Tweek begins. “If I made it h-here without passing out.”

“Right. I did, didn’t I?”

“Y-yeah, Tucker. F-fucking forgetful," Tweek says, shaking his head. "I can’t believe _you_ passed Samson’s class.” He blurts.

“Hey, I thought you said I was smart.” Craig replies, slightly offended.

“Y-yeah, but your memory’s been sh-shit lately! I mean,” Tweek squints. “Y-you don’t remember wh-what happened last Sunday e-either, right?” Only that Craig let it slip a number of times how overtly gay he is for Tweek and Tweek told him he was abducted and dissected by aliens when he was ten. You know, just the usual with extra vodka.

“No.” Craig lies through his teeth and feels awful again. Tweek looks cautious.

“Yeah, m-me neither.” Tweek lies, blinking, thinking about how much he opened up to Craig about the abduction, even though Clyde really doesn’t want _anyone_ to know. But how many secrets can they keep? They’re not ten anymore. They’re not ten anymore; they don’t play space games, steal penny candy or talk over tin can walkie-talkies, breathing in sync and simplicity. Nothing’s so simple. They don’t fib, they’d rather play exclusive mind games on each other instead and fuck, fists can really pack a punch.

“You want that tape now?” Craig asks.

“Do you h-have to get up to get it?” Craig thinks about this. He doesn’t have to get up. It’s in his jacket that’s been sitting on the bed, the tape he was talking about. But it seems wrong to give this one to Tweek when he’s just gotten beaten up and he’s clearly stressed. He’s sure there’s something else he has sitting on his desk.

“Yeah.” Craig nods, lying.

“Oh, don’t b-bother yet.” Tweek believes him and Craig feels wrong about lying, even if it’s something small and dumb.

“It’s right over there.” Craig extends the lie, pointing over to his desk, neat and lacking any sort of junk. There's a spiral-bound a notebook, a small stack of cassettes and three pens in a mug. The mug has a drawing of a labrador on it and it's vaguely familiar to Tweek. There are a couple framed photographs on Craig’s desk, of him and Ruby as kids, standing with this old man by a dusty desert. They're laughing near an off-road diner as if nothing bothers them, like no harm could ever be done to them. Tweek enjoys these photos a lot more than he will admit. Tweek really wishes he had memories like that. Tweek eyes the mug again with the labrador that looks like it’s grinning, cheerful greens and yellows on it.

“Where’d you g-get that cup?” Tweek asks, surprising himself with the question. Craig looks equally surprised, but it glosses over fast. It normally does.

“You left it here years ago. Want it back?”

“Sh-shit, I th-thought it looked familiar. You _kept_ it? E-even after Middle School when I didn’t come back? _Wh-why_? It’s childish.” Tweek rambles, making a confused face, even though he's damn relieved to see that mug again. Means maybe he didn't imagine his childhood all wrong, like the doctors said he did. Craig shrugs.

“Thought I’d see you again someday. I don’t know. It reminded me of good times,” Craig starts to smile a bit. “Do you remember when you got Token to formally write a complaint to Dow or something?”

“Monsanto, man, i-it was Monsanto.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Tweek eyes the cup, biting his lip.

“I took th-that cup everywhere.”

“It still smells like coffee.” Craig agrees. Tweek snorts.

“Y-you smell it? Weirdo.”

“I, uhm, no?” Craig offers, nervously. Tweek shrugs at him.

“Wh-whatever. It’s your life, dude. H-hey, cricket,” Tweek thinks about his next sentence for a minute. Craig waits, shamelessly staring at the guy. Don’t they say eye contact is important when you’re having a conversation? If that’s true, Craig is totally winning. He makes a lot of eye contact. “What m-makes you feel safe?” Tweek asks, looking up and slightly surprised to find Craig already staring at him.

“Huh?”

“When d-do you feel safe?”

“Why are you asking?”

“J-just answer.” Tweek says, his toothy smile appearing and Craig gulps at the sight.

“You’re demanding.”

“W-well, you’re s-stubborn and _you_ ask too many q-questions. It’s m-my turn now.”

“What have I aske----” Tweek just looks at Craig amused and Craig follows that train of thought. “Huh. Oops. Sorry.”

“Answer my damn question and I'll forgive y-you. Wh-what makes you f-feel safe?”

“I don’t know, Tweek. I guess,” He hums and looks around. “My grandfather had an old Chrysler,” Tweek furrows his brows, ejecting the tape in his player and holding onto it. “A sedan. It was the most comfortable car ever. It was maroon on the inside and gray blue on the outside. I loved it.” Tweek frowns at the unexpected answer.

“Th-that, uh, th-that sounds, whoa,” Tweek keeps his frown. “I c-can’t imagine that um, b-being _safe_. Bad things happen in c-cars,” Tweek says, under his breath. “I walk.”

“Always?” Craig nearly mutters, so softly, and Tweek sinks into the bed at the sound. He nods, hesitantly.

“I g-got pegs from it, though, so it’s n-not all as bad as it sounds,” He sticks his legs out and wiggles the good one around for Craig to see. Tweek’s not wearing his beat up sneakers anymore and his old socks are darned with patchworks just enough that they’re splitting at his pinky toe on the good foot. Craig watches Tweek wiggle it, jittering slightly, and he’s struck by the lightness Tweek has around him. “See? W-walking’s good for you.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Damn, it’s easy to keep staring. “Um, not to look at you. Shit. I mean, I’ll look at you,” Craig fumbles with a cough and he nearly pinches the bridge of his nose. What an amazing conversation-having-adult he is. He’s totally still gawking so he glances away. “Um, yeah. Walking’s healthy.” Tweek twitches.

“You’re f-funny, man,” Tweek says, shaking his head. “A c-car, huh? Does he h-have it still?”

“My grandfather died five years ago,” Craig states, tasting even-toned and stale on his tongue, though it’s a fucking wound still, an awful subject that he doesn’t like to talk about. “My guess is that the Chrysler's probably rotting in a junkyard in Denver. Maybe you’d be able to reach it.” Craig says, with a dry smile.  

“I’m s-sorry,” Tweek says with a lot of sincerity. Normally, pity would frustrate the hell out of Craig. When Tweek speaks this, it doesn’t feel like he’s saying it just to say it, because it’s what people say. It feels like he understands, on some weird level, how important that car was to Craig, how important his grandfather still is, even though he's buried deep in the ground. It feels like Tweek understands the weight of the simple apology and it comforts the hell out of Craig. “I, um, I c-can’t imagine losing this. Th-the sounds, I mean. G-going deaf, I c-couldn’t do it,” Tweek gestures around him. “You have a l-lot of bravery, dude.” Craig scoffs and Tweek frowns.

“Okay, buddy. Sure.” Craig says, unconvinced.

“No, I’m serious. You’re brave,” Tweek says with a nervous hum. “H-how come you don’t like yourself?”

“What?” Craig says, startled.

“You’re too hard on yourself. You don’t n-need to be that way. Don’t you know what kind of a p-place it is out there? It’s _lonely_ ,” Tweek turns himself to face Craig, clumsily pulling one knee up to himself and stretching the other one over Craig’s legs. Craig tenses a little, surprised at the contact, at the weight of Tweek’s leg, but maybe those pills Craig gave Tweek for the headache are starting to get to him. “It’s rough. It’s dead quiet when it isn’t screaming. No inbetween,” Tweek leans back against the wall. “U-until,” Tweek makes a face, before he pulls out something underneath Craig’s old blanket that’s digging into his back. It’s a book. Tweek eyes it. He flips it around. “Wh-whoa, dude, Vonnegut? I, I sh-should’ve guessed. You _are_ fucking weird.”

“Gee, thanks.” Craig cringes as he takes the book out of Tweek’s hand. Vonnegut’s the only author he’s ever been slightly interested in reading. Craig definitely wasn’t trying the damn book out to seem more cultured, certainly not to seem more impressive in front of Tweek. Tweek seems generally unimpressed by Craig anyway, why'd he think Vonnegut was a good idea?

“Ah, _Jesus_ , n-no! I m-mean, Vonnegut’s awesome! I, I m-mean no, _Christ_ , you’re,” Tweek huffs, flustered. “No, I _m-meant_ to say that you’re fucking w-weird and th-that’s a good thing,” Tweek adds. “Y-you know life. You get the world and _shit_ ,” Tweek looks kind of confused and maybe even awed. “I don’t understand living. I don’t get th-the living,” Tweek says, gnawing at his lip and looking into the distance. “I, I didn’t get all those bugs.” Tweek adds, turning his eyesight back on Craig, who’s uselessly taking in this information and trying to figure out what to do with it.

“Did you know,” Craig plans to tell Tweek about how mosquitos have forty-seven teeth and that it would take over a million of them biting you to empty you of your blood. Also, male mosquitoes don’t bite humans, so it’d have to be a million _female_ mosquitos. Craig doesn’t know why, but that fact makes it more interesting. Tweek is staring at him with this expression that almost looks adoring, if Craig keeps projecting his feelings. Craig is able to activate his filter enough not to terrify Tweek with the image of a million mosquitoes on one person. He doesn’t want to ruin that pleased face Tweek’s wearing, for whatever reason. “Houseflies hum in the key of F.” He settles with, hoping that will keep Tweek’s eyes looking at him the way he is now. Tweek grins and shit, that’s way better.

“R-really? That’s cool. See wh-what I mean? I never knew th-that! I never would have. I _love_ music.” Tweek confesses, with a slurry tone and Craig looks at him funny.

“I know you do, cicadas sing pretty, too.” Tweek nods, satisfied smile and shifts a little. “What do you need?” Craig asks, immediately and Tweek blinks at him owlishly.

“ _Nothing,_ mom . Y-you’re bed’s so comfortable,” Tweek breathes, relaxing. When Tweek bites at his lip, he shifts his whole jaw to one side and clamps down on his lower lip until it slips. It’s this little action that Craig’s just noticed and _fuck, it’s pretty_. “ _Wh-what!?_ ” Tweek nearly shrieks, strained as hell, any trace of relaxation gone.

“What? I didn’t say anything.” Craig says, though he’s sure he probably let _something_ slip while he was ogling. The weather outside is drizzling rain and the whole house smells like dew, except Tweek. He always smells like citrus, like those candles. It’s a near perfect night and now Craig’s sure he ruined it by letting his mouth blurt something incredibly inappropriate.

“Y-yeah, you d-did! You did, you s-said,” Tweek pulls at his ear a little, one of many nervous ticks he’s got. “You totally said ‘ _f-fuck me pretty_ ’! that’s wh-what you said! Why w-would you _say_ that? Who s-says _that_?”

“Um, I think I would know if I said that.”

“Dude! Y-you totally did! Dude, porn st-stars say that! Bad porn st-stars!”

“Well. Sorry. I guess it’s just a saying. You’re a damn pain sometimes,” Craig mutters, probably redder than farm fresh tomatoes. Tweek flinches. “Crickets have ears on their legs. So, um, you know,” Craig sets his hand on Tweek’s knee, hesitantly. Tweek isn’t jumping like Craig thought he would and Craig’s content to reap in the warmth radiating off of this usually cold sonnuvagun. If anything, Tweek’s stilling a little. “My hearing senses are probably off ‘cause.” Craig stares straight ahead, at nothing, because he can’t look at Tweek’s face right now while he's spewing this useless garbage.

“What does th-that have to do with _your_ hearing?!” Tweek asks, wildly. Craig shrugs incompetently, hand still resting on Tweek’s leg. He can feel Tweek’s leg jittering under his hand. Tweek follows Craig’s eyesight to his knee. “S-sorry, I didn’t know this b-bothered yo----” Tweek starts to move his leg but Craig keeps his hand over Tweek's knee. “Uh, th-the fuck, dude?” Tweek questions, with a slight anxiety.

“You should keep it elevated.” Craig adds, cringing at his own words.

“On you? A-aren’t you w-worried about it being too, uh,” Tweek eyes Craig’s hand. “H-homo?” Craig shrugs.

“I think it’s a little late for that.” Craig states, mostly to himself. Tweek raises an eyebrow.

“U-uh, what w-was that n-now?”

“Nothing. Just a joke, see,” Tweek narrows his eyes while Craig gives him a lifeless face. “Look, it was hysterical, can’t you tell?” Tweek blinks wildly at Craig, unconvinced. “Well,” Craig coughs. Tweek frowns. “How is your headache?”

“Oh, it's fan-fucking-tastic.” Tweek gives a lazy thumbs up and Craig leans back. Tweek’s purple bruised eye is closed more than the good one. The gauze bandages wrap partially around his head, from where Clyde got his cheekbone.

“You look like a mummy.” Craig says, snorting. Tweek closes his eyes, smiling softly.

“I imagine th-this is what mummies feel like. Probably this safe with their buddies who know _weirdass_ sayings, waiting for the afterlife together,” Tweek says, fairly clearly. Craig hears his own pulse, thumping and thrashing. Tweek's not even doing anything other than looking calm and breathing, but that's enough for Craig's heart to beat out its' blood erratically. “Read me the Vonnegut book.” Tweek gestures to the general direction of where the book landed that Craig forgot about.

“ _Read_ to you? Lazy motherfucker.”

“ _Injured_ motherfucker,” Tweek fakes a whine, before laughing almost soundlessly. “Have some sympathy for this poor skin b-bag of bones, please?”

“Tweek,” Craig stifles a snort. “Buddy, you say _my_ bug facts are creepy but that’s a fucking scary statement.”

“Huh? Oh, th-that’s just a saying,” Tweek says, winking and Craig would like to say that his lungs didn’t close up at the sight but that’d be bogus. “You, uh, y-you know how _that_ goes, right? Read to m-me?”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to talk for the both of us. I’m, I’m t-too tired,” Tweek laughs to himself, eyes still closed. “I, I b-barely remember that book, too.”

“Oh, so you already know it? You gotta know the ending, then. What’s the point?”

“It was so long ago, I'm a-ancient. The e-ending doesn’t matter. H-haven’t you read Vonnegut before?”

“Just one story in English class.”

“ _Really?_ Th-that’s sweet, I wish I had th-that kind of English class. Would you r-read this? Please?”

“I’m a slow reader.”

“As l-long as you’re talking, it’s all fine with me.”

“What, you want me to start from the beginning?”

“I don’t care.” Tweek laughs brightly and Craig breathes.

“Fine. I guess.” Craig opens up the book.

“Yeah. Read it, Tucker,” Tweek says, cracking one eye open to look at Craig. Craig, who’s hunching over and concentrating on the text. He takes his hand off Tweek’s leg to turn the pages of the book. Without thinking about anything, Tweek gently pulls Craig’s hand back and causes Craig to get all flustered, dropping the Vonnegut book. It falls to the bed with a nice _flop_ and Tweek cringes. “S-sorry,” Tweek mutters as he places Craig’s hand back on his leg, shakily. He lets go. “It _felt_ nice.”

“I can’t read with one hand.” Craig says stone-faced, through an uneven tone.

“I can.” Tweek brags and Craig raises an eyebrow.

“Alright, buddy, _you_ wanna give it a go with that wonky eye?”

“N-nah,” Tweek shakes his head. He pats the corner of the wall next to him. “If you sit up here, that’d be fine, too. I’ll help h-hold it.”

“Demanding.”

“I j-just know what I want.”

“What about your leg?”

“We’re not so dumb,” Tweek says rolling his eyes as much as they will allow without serious pain. “I’m s-sure we’ll figure another way. Sit up here.” Tweek’s stuck watching Craig reposition his bad leg. Craig folds Tweek’s parka and tucks it under his leg so damn gently that Tweek’s almost sure Craig thinks he’s a piece of china or something. "S-see? Was it hard t-to use your brain?" Craig glares at him. The bed dips next to Tweek and Craig settles in, rigid. He pulls out the book and opens it up, flipping through to his bookmark, a little post-it note that has a bunch of numbers and dates on it. He’s only three chapters in.

“Asshole, you wanna see the pictures too?” Craig asks, his voice tucking into Tweek’s lungs. He’s so close, Tweek can feel his sweatshirt fabric, poking his shoulder. His eyes are so clear, these emerald ones that always look sun speckled. Tweek counts a couple of scars he hadn’t noticed as he openly stares, lazily, with the good eye taking in as much as it can. He wonders where they’re from. Craig isn’t looking at him, he’s concentrating on the text and Tweek can see that dimple Craig’s got sometimes, when he’s thinking too much. Tweek guesses Craig’s thinking a lot, about something he’s not saying. Tweek knows how that feels.

“Cricket,” Tweek begins. Craig hums in response, still furrowing his brows concentrating on the text. “Where’d y-you get that scar?”

“What scar?” Craig asks, lowly. Tweek looks at him skeptically.

“ _This_ one?” Tweek asks, laying his shaking fingers over Craig’s eyebrow, where a small scar sits. Craig drops the book again and Tweek’s beginning to notice a pattern. Tweek sputters laughter as Craig picks the book back up hastily, awkwardly. The rain's still drizzling lovely notes out the darkening window. “What’s it from?”

“Beer bottle. It was only two stitches.” Craig says, quickly.

“When we w-were ten, right?” Tweek asks, biting at his lip, rubbing circles into Craig’s eyebrow with his thumb. Craig’s rigid and his face is radiating heat. “You told m-me it was fireworks.”

“We were _ten_. Fireworks seemed more cool.”

“B-beer bottle, huh?” Tweek says, with this look of anger growing on his face. Craig hums a response again. Tweek’s hand has stilled and he rests his thumb on Craig’s temple. “Was th-that after uh, after the fire?”

“Yes.” Craig answers, honestly.

“D-did, did they get mad at you for th-that? I, um, sh-shit, your parents, I m-mean.”

“They _were_  so pissed.”

“Fuck, I m-made it worse.”

“No, you really didn’t, Tweek. You were my friend.” Tweek stays silent, sensing tension on Craig’s face and he decides maybe he should drop the subject.

“How much do you w-wash this thing?” Tweek asks instead, pulling off Craig’s hat. It's fuzzy and blue. It nearly looks like the one he used to wear in elementary school, except this one's got more patterns on it, more wears to it. It's a deeper, more respectable blue and Craig gives Tweek a look. _Every laundry load,_  he washes it, _sometimes twice a week, but Tweek doesn’t have to know he’s that much of a neat-freak_.

“Why do you always have to take my hat?” Craig groans. Tweek thinks about this for a minute and snorts to himself.

“Y-your hat is like a cocoon.” Craig laughs and yeah, Tweek did miss it. They could have had memories like this spanning through middle school and high school, if Tweek hadn't caught crazy. Instead, there’s this disturbed gap, a blankness where Tweek was stuck staring at flies in fluorescent lights and tricking his doctors into buying that he was okay.

“What the fuck, Tweek, do think my hair is going through metamorphosis?” Tweek makes a face.

“You’re such a dork.”

“That medicine I gave you wasn't you loopy. Just sleepy.”

“This is h-how I get before I sleep, asshole. Are you gonna read or what?” Tweek remarks, letting his head loll. Craig rolls his eyes and opens the book for the third time. He starts reading where he left off, feeling a little dumb using his vocal chords this much. But he looks over at Tweek, who seems really into the story and he finds it hard to concentrate on what the text actually says. He just reads what’s there, without thinking about it so much and has no inflection for the different characters. He’s sure it’s choppy and flat but he’s never cared this much about his own voice, about making it sound right. Tweek chuckles this beautiful real laugh at points, to jokes that Craig's completely misses out on. He's amazed that Tweek is this relaxed,  _smiling_ and most importantly, breathing, after what Clyde did to him. 


	14. ace of cups, wading earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! so i'm super sorry that our main dudes aren't together yet. i'm having difficulties ending this story so your comments totally help, when you suggest something or think i should stop writing about a part of it (or all of it) or even if you like parts! that really helps. also, sorry for that last update i did, i kind of hate that thing and now i'm not sure why i posted it. XD

Clyde passes the cemetery rarely. When it’s dark, he won’t go alone.

But it’s _morning_ now, the sunlight pours over spring dew and the quickest way to get to Bebe’s house is through the woods by that cemetery and Clyde doesn’t like to go there alone.

At least the air smells nice and fresh.

It’s been five text messages since he fought Tweek, five texts from Craig and Clyde still isn’t responding.

_I’m sorry but_

Clyde doesn’t bother reading the rest.

Bamboo stalks sit on Bebe’s windowsill. She breathes in plants and sleeps peacefully with the oxygen that aloe releases. She’s a late dreamer and she’s often told Clyde she feels lazy if she can’t wake up. Clyde thinks about telling her that if he could sleep that well, he probably wouldn’t wake up too easily either.

It was a routine that Clyde broke. Clyde's always been early to rise. He'd jog the twenty minutes to Bebe’s house and wake her up. It’s been that way for the past two years, every school morning. Clyde broke it last month, after the first altercation. Bebe was late and slightly disheveled but she still smiled when she saw him and asked what was wrong in homeroom. Clyde didn’t tell her.

He’s seen her talk to Tweek, and he’s shot his fair share daggers in math at the two of them. Bebe’s nice and sweet and friendly and Tweek’s just jaded and mysterious and Clyde can’t get jealous. Clyde's funny, nice, too and he wakes up looking good. His hands don’t shake when they try to solve something simple.

But Clyde doesn’t know a damn thing about Tchaikovsky, he doesn’t listen to Chopin. He doesn’t read, he isn’t as smart as he could be and he’s gotten more concussions than he can count on one hand. Up until last month, Clyde considered himself a good friend, a good boyfriend. Bebe and him used to talk a lot more than they do, over movies and food. Bebe loves a good french fry and that was their first date.

If he could tell her, he still probably wouldn’t. She’s mad at him for what he did to Tweek and maybe she should be mad but is she mad because she’s sick of Clyde and would rather be with someone who's not always moping over himself?

_I’m sorry but_

Sorry but _what,_ Craig ? _Sorry but I killed our friendship? Sorry but I care more about some asshole that just showed up after eight years? Sorry but I’m not sorry?_

Dammit, Craig. What does it say?

Clyde waits outside of Bebe’s house, debating whether or not he should go in and share a smoothie with Bebe’s mom, like he used to do every morning for the past two years that he waited for her to get up. Clyde thumbs through his phone absently to distract from the unread messages Craig sent. The latest one starts off with,

_Did you_

Clyde doesn’t want open it. If this were a normal day, any other high school year, Clyde would’ve opened it right away. He would’ve read,

_Did you know that_

It doesn’t matter what he would’ve read. He would’ve felt like a good friend, like he had a good friend.

Clyde opens the messages before he knocks at Bebe’s door. The latest one reeks of Craig’s composed speaking pattern, with barely any stress to it. He sent it early this morning. Clyde's not sure if he woke up early, went to bed late or never slept at all. 

_Did you know that the length of a year on mars is equal to 687 earth days? I think I told you already. Isn’t it a long time? I can’t imagine going a year without talking to you, man, even if it’s a plain earth year. Can you please talk to me instead of listening to that Sarah McLachlan song on repeat?_

Clyde scrolls through the other messages. The first one Craig sent is pretty simple, from two days ago.

_Did I really break your nose?_

The next one is worse.

_Tweek can hardly walk, Clyde._

The third one is from yesterday.

 _He’s still not dead, FYI_ . _Did Token tell you I called? Can you pick up? We should talk. You should talk._

The fourth one is from last night around ten.

_I’m sorry but you weren’t going to stop. I’ve never seen you so mad. How pissed are you at me now?_

The fifth one still singes Clyde up a bit and he thinks about typing back. He composes and deletes a number of messages. Let it go, he thinks to himself. Just let it go.

In a year, Craig won’t really care, Clyde rations. He’s just trying to smooth things over for when they’re around only during the holidays. They’re going to separate colleges, they’re going to be miles apart, who even knows how they would have stayed friends if this shit hadn’t happened?

Clyde always knew that it’d be over some day.

He knocks on Bebe’s door, shoving his phone in his pocket and feeling like it's way too formal to be knocking but he hasn't done this in a month. No one answers.

He tries a second time. Nothing. He pulls out his phone again and sends a new message to Bebe.

_How are u still asleep??_

He waits a long time, breathing in the dew and squinting at the rising sun. They’re going to graduate in a couple weeks and it’s a weight that Clyde’s ready to let go of. What else is he going to do though? The schoolwork, he’s definitely over. Tasting morning over by the pond is something he misses, tasting sunshine on Bebe's face is something he misses. They used to do that, before this year was overrun with wolves and coyotes and all kinds of monsters.

Bebe doesn’t text him back and whether she’s sleeping or not is something Clyde didn’t question until now. Maybe she’s already at school. Maybe she's incredibly pissed at him. Clyde phone buzzes and he’s expecting Bebe’s sassy tone. The text isn’t Bebe’s semi-coherent morning thoughts. It comes from an unknown number.

_If you give me five min, ill leave you alone._

Clyde frowns. He types back fast.

_Think you got the wrong #_

Clyde sighs, waiting for a response from anybody, _even one more pleading text from Craig and maybe he'll crack,_  but nothing comes. He pockets his phone once more and deserts Bebe’s house. He doesn’t feel he can let himself in anymore. Bebe could be at school anyway. She could be passive aggressively ignoring him _like he’s doing to Craig,_ but Bebe doesn’t do that. Bebe’s forgetful, sometimes. She probably just lost her phone, or it’s dead.

Clyde makes the lonely trek back through the cemetery and he pauses at a headstone. It’s 7:37 AM, school starts soon and he probably shouldn't be here. From the headstone, Clyde can see the swingset behind the church and if he just makes it up the small hill, he could remember something else.

Through the brambles, the vines that have overgrown, _who takes care of this place anyway?_ Clyde makes his way. He creates a path, he digs through the dirt until his shoes muck muddy and make smacking noises as they pad their way. His phone buzzes and he doesn’t bother checking it until he makes it up to the swingset.

It’s rusty. It looks newer than he remembers, swaying slightly in the wind and Clyde didn't feel a chill this morning when he got up. He didn't feel the chill until he watched the sky hit against the swing set. 

He sits down, checking the time and how late is he willing to be? It’s only been six minutes of walking. He sees the new message, from that same unknown number.

_Five min. I won’t throw any punches if you won’t. Alone?_

Clyde feels his face scrunching.

_Who is this?_

_sorry it’s tweek ok? Token gave me your number. Please don’t hate him._

Clyde doesn’t respond. He puts his phone away, comes close to dropping it in the mud until he gets another buzz. It’s from Bebe.

_D: Omg wtf!!! How am i this late!? Clydeeee wtf why didn’t you come in???_

Clyde smiles, relieved more than she will ever know by such a simple text. He types back that he thought she was up, she asks him how he could think that when it's so early. He leaves the playground and the church that he barely passes by anymore. They ran out of money after the pastor was found swindling and now the old building’s just stayed empty, except for the occasional touch of vandalism and a hobo mark.

Clyde makes his way down the path and swears he hears crunching snow behind him. He stops in his tracks, turning. There’s no one behind him and he releases tense shoulders he didn’t realize were holding him up. He gets another text from Tweek.

_You punched my guts up the least you can do is text me back man!!1!_

Jesus, the kid’s dense. Doesn’t he get that Clyde would rather fight everyone than spend a civil two minutes alone with Tweek?

_What is it you even want?_

Tweek responds, almost like lightning.

_I want my journal back...did you burn it?/_

_Will you leave me alone if I give it back? Will you get out of my life?_

_Jesus yeah clyde! youre a fucking miserable guy . you think i want to hang  around someone whos gunna fuck me up?? i just want what’s mine , ii  can’t i explain it i shouldn’t have to tell you. It’s mine I need my journal and you stole it._

Clyde knows starting this conversation before school will just piss him off, especially because he has math and Tweek will be there, giving him this dumbfounded expression with his wide eyes. Making it his goal to annoy the hell out of Clyde.

 _Fine_.

Clyde settles with, hoping to get another message from Bebe but he doesn’t hear from her. He figures she’s rushing around, trying to make it to school on time and Clyde still thinks it’s adorable that she tries. His phone dings clear, right as he walks through the school doors.

_After school?_

Clyde grimaces.

_No. Tomorrow night._

_Can you meeet me at the  old church?  I didn’t  press charges you know_

* * *

There’s a lullaby in the church tonight.

Tweek has stabbed himself with razor-sharp pencils, ballpoint pens until he sees the wobbling drops of blood, until he’s too dizzy to _hear_ any more voices. He traces his fingerprints, even the weird one on his pinky. If the voices are bad enough, if there are a lot of talkers and barely any listeners, he reopens the wound on his wrist. Maybe there’s a chip in there, what were they even looking for? Maybe he could end the noise if he knew what _they_ were looking for.

_"Lock your gate, they might knock, but they could slink away. They live far off a beaten path, but monsters won’t stay at bay. They smell you red, metallic refreshens, watch them sway. Grab vines and pluck worm food, lock your gate, slink away."_

It's a small nursery rhyme, meant to soothe not terrify. Tweek thinks he got it right, just the way his dad used to tell it to him. Sometimes, Tweek writes afterwards, in his journal, in solitude. Clyde's giving it back, the old one that's full of everything useful he needs and it'll be nice not to have to track it all down. Clyde's giving it to him tomorrow, he's going to see it again and he can already feel it's weight in his weightless mind. Sometimes, Tweek rushes through phrases and is unphased by the tangled speech, the low tones. But boy, they ring and drop dead like house flies, dead like faith, dead like mama.

Sometimes, the pencil’s sharp enough to scrape designs, _to tattoo._  It’s not that it’s pretty. It’s not that he’s lonely. It’s not that he’s sad. He doesn’t need company, he doesn’t need anybody because he has a lot of people talking his head off that won’t shut up iftheywouldjustshutthefuckup

 _When I was fifteen, I said I would watch Stan's football game_.

“Wh-why are you telling me this?” Tweek murmurs, watching the glow of his citronella candle and the scent mellows. He's talking to a candle, talking to his candle, his logical side tries to tell him. There's no way he's talking to a ghost, a dead kid that used to go to his high school, his logical, doctor-induced, pill-influenced side argues.

 _I spent that night in the hospital. They think I fell down the stairs_. Sounds like Kenny, doesn't it? It really does. 

“Are y-you humming? Stop humming that shit.”

_No. I’m dead, you know, don’t got much to sing about._

“Can you get everyone to shut up? I can barely hear y-you, Kenny.”

_Hiya, kid, ‘member four years ago when you chucked up all that blood?_

“Wh-who said that? Can you shut them up, dude? Come on, m-make this easier and I can help you somehow. Maybe. N-no, no promises.”

_Remember when they said we were weren’t really here with you?_

“Who s-said _that_ ? Why are you saying _this_?”

_Really? That's funny. ‘Cause here I am, right? I’m obviously real._

“Obviously.” Tweek agrees, close to hyperventilating and inhaling spit.

 _And we aren’t doing anything illegal_.

“N-no, how would that work out with me?” Tweek flinches, eyes deep set on his candle. “I c-can’t even hold paper, I c-can’t even tie a fucking _knot_ in my shoelaces some days.”

_So why’d you think that blanket noose would kill you? What do you even think happens when you die? I bet it’s amazing._

“I s-swear, if you don’t shut up.”

_What? You’ll kill me? And who are you swearing to? Hope it’s not God ‘cause I don’t think he’s that good at keeping his promises. I should be in hell now._

“Maybe this is h-hell, man, I don’t know. I’m s-swearing to myself! _Set high s-standards and h-hold yourself up to them_. That’s the best thing I ever read in the guidance counselor’s office.” Tweek tracks the flicker of the candle, counting the way it sways so he can tell how many listeners he has tonight.

_Your threat's pretty lowball, kid._

“I’d d-drown myself in gasoline, douchebag, then who would you all annoy? The Ralph’s hate you.”

 _They don’t hate me_.

“Yeah, th-they do. They told me so.”

_We’re just in a lover’s quarrel._

“Wh-what the fuck. Th-they’re, they’re l-like eighty and they’ve been dead for almost a c-century!”

_I know! I’m an enigma._

“Y-you’re a ghost, Kenny, how many times d-do I have to tell you?”

 _It’s kind of weird, though, right? I mean, I feel like I’ve known you forever_ . _Damn, your head is dark. I had no idea._

“What now?”

_Come on, you must feel it, too. I mean, you gotta feel that shit every day. I would, I know I would if I were in there. I always thought you were nanners. I can’t believe you can actually talk to me!_

“How b-badly did it hurt?”

_Knew I was dead the second they snapped the cord this time. The last thirty seconds were the strangest and most beautiful of my life. I remembered soda cans so clearly._

“Uh, okay.”

_Hey, why don’t we play a card game? Like at Token’s. ‘Member that party? It’ll be fun this time. I’m sorry for what I called you. You can legitimately teach me poker. I can tell you understand it._

“I knew you didn’t get the rules.”

_It’s a tough game! I don’t get how a scatterbrain like yours can handle it, even after what they did to you. Yikes. You’ve survived through some scary shit, though. No kid should ever go though that._

“Wh-what?”

 _I mean, Tweek, you know how this works, don’t you? You’re not my first rodeo, but it’s nice to get to know you better. I see everything. You might hear me, but I can see_ everything _._

“What?”

_No other ghost has peeked and told? I find that hard to believe._

“Done _wh-what_?”

_Um, nothing? Nevermind. I shouldn’t have looked in that part._

“In wh-what part?” Tweek groans. “Jesus, just tell me what you fucking mean,” There’s silence, candle flickers and nothing for a few minutes. Tweek grows impatient. No one's telling him _anything_ these days and yeah, there were times when he wished they wouldn't, but he doesn't anymore. He has to know, there's nothing else to focus on. “ _Tell_ m-me what you mean, m-man.” The light finally glows the color Tweek’s been looking for, a steadiness, a blue hue.

_Tweek, you’re really good at hiding, aren’t you? I mean, you like it, don’t you?_

“Y-yeah, sure, I guess. I like games okay.” Tweek says, suspiciously.

_Then I suggest you hide._

There’s a lullaby in the church.

It used to be full-bodied, swarming from the voices of people on Sundays but it’s a faint and hazy song now. Tweek remembers tagging alongside Clyde and his dad, watching his friends recite phrases he’d never memorize. They all knew when to kneel, even Craig’s little sister, and that was Tweek’s mistake. He could never kneel properly. After church, Clyde’s dad always bought them breakfast. They’d eat fluffy pancakes, drowning in syrup until they were a sugary mess and Tweek left for his empty home with a full stomach.

Tweek sits in the pews of that abandoned church a lot these days, trying to listen to the lullaby that’s only close the more he thinks about the past.

It’s soft. It’s barely memorable and it seems so fucking important.

The church smells frail.

The pews are worn and Tweek wonders who else has sat in them, in the two hundred years this place has been standing here. He thinks it’s odd how no one comes by anymore; how this place of worship got boarded up a few years back. Asbestos, maybe? Tweek doesn’t know the answer. He wonders how many people just pretended to pray back then, how many just played this head game with themselves when they were hearing their own feedback, their _own_ conscience. In Tweek’s mind, God was a humbling voice that rolled out _feel guilty act kind plead redemption feel kind act guilty plead redemption feel redeemed act kind plead guilt_ plead kind plead kind

Space games were more interesting in those days. It’s the same church, it’s the same church with the _same_ rusty playground where Tweek and his friends collected. Tweek loved the swingset. Clyde didn’t, Clyde said it was too cold for the swing when they were alone, when they walked there alone some days, _most_ days, after school. To spy, that’s all they wanted to do. They wanted to prove who the bad guys were, they wanted to catch the bad guys that beat Tweek’s mama, beat mama until she couldn’t run anymore, couldn’t cry anymore and they walked alone some days, _most_ days.

They walked alone there, _some_ days, most days and it was so easy to spot them.

They walked alone and were never as secret as they thought. They _spun the duct tape through his pinkies and bound twine and promised promised she wouldn’t fall down the stairs again promised she was an angel now, yes, boy, an angel like the pretty drawing on the decks of cards that papa placed bad bets on papa was always right wasn’t he he was always winning even if he was a slow rolling bastard papa knew how to cheat the game he knew mama wouldn’t be in the ground told him that she was flying and flying up in heaven and the alcohol stung pucker up he was a brave little kid to tell to tell on them to tell what he saw what they did_ They cured that awful sick illness they cured innocence didn’t they _he was brave wasn’t he he needed more more candy to keep his left toe from twitching to keep his lungs from asking where Clyde went_

Tweek always wanted to know what it was like to fly _like mama far from underground_ and some days, when Craig pushed him on that swingset, Tweek felt like he knew. Besides, from high above, Tweek could see a lot. He could see how  _they_ _waited waited like snakes in expensive silk waited with poisonous tongues and_ the Ralph’s headstone in that graveyard beyond the hill lived. When Craig pushed Tweek on that swing set, all Tweek could keep in his sight was _mars_.

It was a sweet daydream, while it lasted. Mars or the moon, those were their only two destinations. Never earth. Craig and him always took their game pretty seriously, buying into complex delusions that Token and Clyde never needed. Token and Clyde wouldn’t get it, they wouldn’t understand why their friends never wanted the games to end.

At home, anxiety wasn’t allowed. On earth, expressions were flat and devoid. Voices were outlaws unless they beamed from above, unnaturally, and made you spit through cherry-stained teeth, except nothing tasted sweet. _Don’t scream. Aren’t you a big kid? Big kids don’t scream._

There was no ice in the fire Craig and him set, back before they took Tweek away. Tweek thinks about that a lot, about the scorched pine trees and how there was nothing cold, nothing to hold onto without flames licking at cut open wrists.

_Feeling better?_

“No, I m-mean, I’m fine. Hey, how’d you do th-that? I forgot about the swing, it was so clear. How’d y-you do that? How a-are you in my head?”

_I’m glad that you handled it like that._

“What are you talking about?”

_I know you like being alone. I know what you think; other people lie. You can’t lie to yourself._

“You c-can’t.” Tweek whispers.

_I know what you think. Tweek, I’ve seen a lot of shit, still wish I hadn’t seen that._

“Seen _what_?”

There was a lullaby in the church. A forty seven year old tongue waited behind a full-bodied river, reaping in mars, and Tweek used to walk there alone.


	15. elbow close, can't bite the night alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn dudes this is getting sooooooo lonnggggg. thanks for taking this journey with me! this is a pretty light chapter. i always love to hear your comments, too dudes! <3

Tweek notices blonde curls in the distance. They belong to this girl tiptoeing through the cement blocks, clutching a violin. Her name is uncomfortable, like Tweek's. She paints her fingernails seashell green and when she plays her fiddle, the callouses pressed against the wood cause her skin to pale, a peachy white. It reminds Tweek of a foggy coast, but the tune she plays is never the same. It never quite fits the mood that Tweek feels when he looks at her. Her name is Bebe.

It's late afternoon. Clyde's supposed to be meeting Tweek tonight, after school, _here,_ and Tweek is confused. Clyde's meeting him, right? Did he tell Bebe anything? Did Clyde _share_? Did he _finally_ share? What is he so afraid of anyway? Will Clyde share tonight? How much does _she_ know? Will she tell Tweek, in her perpetually jovial manner? Will she say, with her sympathetic smile in soft light, that she knows what the aliens did to them? Does she know?

How could _she_  help, even if she did know?

Bebe turns a corner, startled, and holds her violin to the side. The bow hangs out of her other hand, aiming to slip but it never touches the ground. Tweek's impressed. He's always dropping everything, always tripping on everything and she stands with grace like this sometimes. Bebe smiles faintly when she recognizes Tweek.

“What are you doing here?” Tweek calls out, like he does to anyone that comes by. He always wards off the living. This is _his_ resting place.

“Do you own the cemetery, Tweek?” She hollers back, walking towards him.

“Kind of.” Tweek mumbles, realizing that he’s not as much of an asshole since he started hanging out with Craig. If Craig had never snapped sarcasm in that fucking beautiful tone of his at Tweek this year, Tweek wouldn't have bitten back but he _did_ , didn't he? And it's come to hit him these last few days; a whirlwind in his ribs. It makes him feel warm-lit, this feeling of all sorts of weather running wild up his throat, daring to do dangerous shit. Lately, Tweek looks in the mirror back in the school bathroom, when no one's around. He stares at his neck, his stomach, _everywhere_ , looking for some kind of exit wound that would explain this feeling he has when ever Craig gets near him. Nothing shows up and why should he be surprised? Everything that's rotting is tucked safely behind his skeleton. Tweek's blood spikes, hikes treks still, when Craig's voice rumbles even. Tweek's never sure if he's breathing, if his eyes are moving _they're always fucking running neon_  but why does breathing feel so much like dying when Craig's dimple shows and he smiles in that unsure way of his? Like Craig thinks his teeth are too fucked up or something, but Tweek could spend afternoons staring. Craig could lull him to deep sleep just by reading a dictionary. Just by inhaling and exhaling next to him.

It's not a productive way to be. It's not productive to be this invested, _this_ protective and so damn distracted all the time to be cautious anymore. 

Tweek’s staring at Bebe, shaking his head to rid himself of the red-face he's sure he's wearing. Tweek usually sees glimpses of her, usually laughing by Clyde. When she’s not with him, she’s pulling out her violin with these sharp fingers. Tweek’s seen her play it while she waits for the late bus. He’s heard her jigs and the Vivaldi she has to practice but he knows it bores her a little. Vivaldi bores him, at least. She’s pretty great at it, despite the look of annoyance on her face.

“Nice! You’re just, what, eighteen and you already own property?” She whistles. “Doing well for yourself, little man.” She holds off on her violin, and Tweek wishes she would play the damn thing instead of talking to him. He needs some strings, no talking, to mellow him out. He needs a melody, a beautifully bitter melody, _humming from Cra---_ nope. Nope. Bebe looks on apprehensively.

“How’s your b-boyfriend? _Where’s_ your boyfriend?” Tweek asks, flinching in his eye. Bebe scrunches her nose up. She’s walking closer and Tweek realizes he is, too.

“We’re taking a break.”

“Th-that’s new. Thought you g-guys were like,” Tweek leans against the stone, against mars. “A power couple or something.”

“Clyde needs to sort himself out,” Bebe shakes her head, looking off. “He has a damn thick skull.”

“Y-yeah, I don’t.” Tweek adds grimly, rubbing his head, at a place where Clyde surely injured him in that fight.

“What are you doing here?” Bebe asks, poking Tweek’s shoulder with her bow. Tweek flinches and shifts.

“Maintenance.” Bebe looks at him incredulously.

“Looks like you’re hiding to me.”

“W-well, why are you here?” Tweek nearly snarls.

“I’m following somebody’s map,” Bebe says, biting her lip and pulling out a piece of paper that Tweek instantly recognizes. “This is yours, right?”

“Y-your, ah _shit_ ,” Tweek reaches for it but Bebe doesn’t give it up so easily. Tweek frowns. “Clyde l-let you look at that?” Tweek asks, wide-eyed.

“No,” Bebe confesses hastily, embarrassed. “I stole it. It slipped out of his bag! I just wanted answers.”

“I th-thought he was gonna burn that.” Tweek mutters, eyeing the map.

“Well, he _didn’t_ . Look, Tweek,” Bebe begins. “I thought I loved him but he isn’t,” Bebe gestures with her fingers, spidery and lovely, at Tweek. Tweek stares at the seashell blue nails he always watched dance on that violin she plays after school. “Look what he did to you! That’s not Clyde. That’s not him. He isn’t the same, he _hasn’t_ been the same boy since, well,” She starts like she’s walking on eggshells. “Well, since you came back, actually.”

“I d-didn’t want th-this. _I_ m-minded my own business.”

“Yeah, somehow you still got my boyfriend and his best friend to fight over you.” Bebe says, a little glumly.

“ _Over_ me?” Tweek snorts, gesturing to his black eye, even though it doesn’t hurt as much as his ribs do. “That’s not why h-he did this,” Tweek begins, looking off into the sun collapsing in on the mountains. “ _Clyde’s_ not that simple.”

“I’m not a moron! I know something’s up. You totally think I’m just some dumb floozy, don’t you?”

“N-no, no, B-Bebe, I don’t. No one,” Tweek hums. “No one knows how p-people mourn in private. Behind closed doors.” _no one knows what happens behind closed doors in vans too dark to believe light still exists_

“What’s he mourning, then?" Bebe asks, softly. "Why can’t he tell me?”

“I think you sh-should leave it alone.” Tweek says, tone kinder than the words.

“He’s so sad every day.”

“Yeah, seems it.”

“I don’t get why he can’t tell me. He’s literally told me every episode of _Star Trek_ word for word! I don’t even _like_ _Star Trek_ ,” Bebe exaggerates. “Why can’t he tell me what’s going on? I’m just so, so pissed at him! Is that wrong?” Bebe adds, with this growl to her voice that surprises Tweek.

“It’s h-how you feel. Why would it b-be wrong?”

“I don’t know, Tweek, I don’t know. Why do you _know_ ? I mean, you gotta know _something_ ,” She looks at him, almost pleading. “What do you know?” She resolves. Tweek bites his lip.

“I r-really think you sh-should leave it alone,” Tweek mutters again. Bebe looks at the map. “H-he, give him time.” Tweek offers, in a voice that lacks hope.

“Your handwriting is prettier than my mamaw’s.” Tweek blinks.

“I j-just want it to be readable.” He mumbles. She hands him the map back, when she sees it’s kind of a dead-end and Tweek feels its’ weight again, though it's physically about as light as a feather. He half wishes Clyde had burned it.

“I miss all the guys hanging out together, Tweek! I know you won't. Token hasn't talked to me since yesterday ‘cause I’m apparently,” Bebe huffs a little, shuffling her feet. “I’m apparently a bitch for wanting Clyde to _share_ or something. Fourth period is going to be miserable tomorrow.”

“I-isn’t that math?”

“Yeah,” Bebe nods. “You’d know if you came in more.” Bebe adds, slightly teasing.

“I like math.” Tweek mumbles, finding it pretty easy to talk to Bebe, so much easier now that Clyde’s not around to give him nasty looks and call him psychotic. 

“How’s Craig?” Tweek shifts at the question, adjusting his face to glare at the closing sun.

“F-fine. I dunno. Talkative. Craig.” Bebe smirks a little.

“Talkative?”

“Y-yeah, you know h-how he is.”

“I _guess_ ,” Bebe scoffs. “I’d never describe him as talkative, though.”

“I mean, h-he talks a lot. Doesn’t h-he? He d-does, right?” Tweek’s sure Craig does, he pays attention to that voice so often. His ears are always tuning in like a radio, waiting to hear Craig’s mellow sound. Tweek wishes he had a better recording of it, other than the curse word Craig uttered when he 'messed up' on that first mixtape. Tweek rewinds that part some days just to hear Craig talk when he's no where to be found.

“Not really. What does he even _talk_ about?”

“B-bugs,” Tweek says, grinning before he realizes it. “Bugs and science fiction. I don’t know. W-we talk.”

“He must really like you. Token was right,” Bebe frowns. “Well, about _this_ , at least.”

“A-about what? What’d he say?” Bebe looks a bit confused.

“Well, I mean, that you and Craig would make a good couple. You do. It’s so perfect.” Bebe says slowly, like she’s pointing out something that’s very clear but Tweek’s too blind to see it.

“U-uh, wh-what?” Tweek asks, wide eyed.

“Aren’t you a couple?” Bebe backtracks.

“A c-couple of _friends_!” Tweek says, unnerved. Bebe starts laughing at him and he glares. “ _What_?!” He growls. She tries to stop laughing but it just sputters until she still has this goofy big smile on her face.

“I’m sorry, Tweek, I thought you, well, _you know._ ”

“No!”

“Sheesh, Tweek! I mean, Craig made you mixtapes, didn’t he? That’s something you do for your sweetheart!”

“I, I, um, I l-like music, Craig’s j-just _nice_ ,” Tweek says, attempting an excuse. “How do you know that anyway?” He snaps, somewhat defensively. Bebe shrugs.

“Clyde told me or,” Bebe suddenly looks small and sad, despite the fact that she’s taller than Tweek and her cheeks are permanently rose-hued. She’s always smiling and this glum mood looks wrong on her, so much so that it disturbs Tweek. “Complained loudly about it.”

“O-oh.” Tweek struggles to find something that a reasonably polite person would say to make her feel a little better. He just ends up staying silent for a long time and she seems to straighten up on her own.

“You know, that’s what I asked him. If he was jealous,” Bebe admits. Tweek shuffles awkwardly. “He’s not, I guess,” Bebe smiles suddenly, and it’s waning, but still keeps it going. “Hey, are ya hungry, Tweek?” She asks and Tweek’s stomach does feel a little rumbly.

“I d-don’t have any money.” Bebe just shakes her head, smiling.

“That’s not what I asked. Come on, let’s get a bite to eat. My dad makes the best spaghetti!”

“No, I’m o-okay.” Bebe gasps a little.

“It’s from scratch, Tweek. Pasta from scratch! How can you pass up on this?”

“I, uh, I guess Clyde wouldn’t.” Tweek blurts, unsure of why he says this. Maybe he’s just really shitty at making conversation with people his own age. People of this _century,_ his own age but he guesses he hasn’t messed up that bad, ‘cause Bebe’s looking at him almost pensively.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Bebe agrees, shoulders releasing some tension. She looks at him, somewhat pleadingly. “Come with me please? If,” Bebe squints at him for a second, still offering a slight smile. “If you let me listen to your mixtapes, I’ll help you figure it all out.”

“Figure wh-what out?”

“Oh, you know!" Bebe says this a lot, Tweek is starting to realize. "If Craig’s falling for you. Please? Come on, it’ll be fun,” She says, sing-songs slightly. “We’ll gab and everything. I can loan you a hairbrush, too,” Bebe says, gesturing to Tweek’s hair. He touches it, somewhat self-consciously and then feels ridiculous. Why does he _care_ what it looks like? Bebe smiles suddenly _almost knowingly, what does she know?_ Tweek, for the second time tonight, kind of wishes she would play her violin. Bebe doesn’t talk _this_ much when she's playing the violin. “I mean, when was the last time you brushed your hair out?”

“I don’t know. A-all of it?” She laughs.

“Yes, Tweek!  _All of it_.”

“I don’t remember.” He says, dazed.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Bebe says, walking away and Tweek doesn’t know why he leaves his church behind when he clearly has to prepare for Clyde, but he does. He follows after this girl he kind of knows, who’s promised him spaghetti. “I’m sure that Craig’s made a number of mixtapes for you.” Tweek looks down, feeling this heat coming off his face.

“Wh-why do you think that?”

“Tweek, in all the years I’ve known your boy there,” Bebe begins as they leave the cemetery. Tweek rubs at his face, hoping to get it back to normal. It doesn’t work, especially with the things that Bebe says next. “I’ve _never_ seen his eyes this wide before this year. He always looked like he was sleepwalking, until you showed up again. He’s super into in you.”

“He’s not.” Tweek says, slowly, flinching.

“ _I_ pay attention to my friends. I know when something’s off. I spot this kind of stuff. Craig’s, like, a real easy tell. He stares at you so much. Like you’re the goddamn sun or something.”

“You sh-shouldn’t stare at the sun. It’s r-really shitty on your eyes.” Tweek mumbles. Bebe shakes her head.

“It’s just a saying, broody. Lighten up a little.”

“W-well, it gives bad advice.”

“Yeah,” Bebe nods, smiling and looking at Tweek, patting his head. He’s startled by the action. “Yeah, you and Craig probably get along _great_ ,” Tweek blinks. “He’s a good guy, Tweek, you know.”

“Y-yeah,” Tweek agrees, voice sharp and cracked, despite whispering this. “Yeah.”

“Let me text my dad and tell him you’re coming. You aren’t allergic to anything are you? You’re not kosher like Kyle, right? Here, hold this.” Bebe tosses over her violin and Tweek nearly drops it. She doesn't seem to notice. 

“I,” Tweek begins. “I don’t eat meat o-or dairy,” Tweek says. “O-or eggs.” Tweek adds, somewhat sympathetically. Tweek is expecting annoyance but Bebe just laughs loudly.

“Shit, you’re a vegan now, too? Wow.” She pulls out her phone and texts wildly, sending it off quickly. She puts her phone away and they continue walking, seeing the lights of the downtown now.

“S-sorry.” Tweek mentions and Bebe just looks at him.

“For what?”

“I, um, b-being picky.”

“It’s fine, Tweek! Don’t worry about it. I’ve had Craig over to my house a few times. _He’s_ the fucking worst. Always double-checking _how_ vegetarian it all is,” Tweek shuffles a little. “The pasta’s vegan anyway.”

“Thanks.” Tweek smiles at her.

“Craig must have it so bad for you.” She notes, somewhat humorlessly.

“Why?”

“You’re just a little cutie, aren't you? You know, he _loves_  animals. He told me he likes them more than 'his own species' but,” Bebe whistles, looking unconvinced. "I dunno, Tweek, now that you're back," Tweek feels fire, still not fully believing a word Bebe’s said to him. But it’s a sweet fantasy, even if it is bizarre as hell and most likely untrue, and it’s distracting him from the weight of the map, from the meeting with Clyde tonight. “I bet you’ve been making senior year absolutely insufferable for him.”

 

 


	16. two of swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! i'm not sure how much longer this will be and i'm also not sure how i feel about this chapter but yeah. thanks so much for the support everyone! i really appreciate comments because they help me become better at writing and better at telling believable little stories. <3

There’s a kick to the wind.

It's a punching that makes Tweek listen to the outside sounds, the _living_ sounds. He peers through the panes of his old church, pulled by footsteps crunching leafless snow. He notices Clyde’s uptight walk first. Clyde's got these large shoulders that hunch over like sour-busted thumbs under his red sweatshirt. Despite the beat of his walk, the rhythm and the heavy step, Clyde looks like he’s tiptoeing through everything.

It reminds Tweek of Bebe's walk, except Clyde's lacks the lightness. He's missing the storybook-character quality Bebe has.

Clyde's hand is tight on his backpack. Tweek’s eyes are still trailing him from a distance, inside this church that comes close to calming his nerves.

Clyde stops to check his phone. Tweek watches the blue glow light up his face into a slight smile. It’s been a long time since Tweek’s seen that. Tweek heaves a large sigh and pushes himself away from the window. He opens the door with a shriek. Tweek's not as strong as he could be and Clyde doesn’t seem too surprised to see him struggling. 

“I don’t want to fight you anymore.” Clyde states, after a minute. His voice is plain and flat, but he's looking like he’s thought about this a lot longer than most people would give him credit for. Tweek frowns.

“I, I n-never _wanted_ to fight you, man. How’s your n-nose anyway?” Tweek asks, sincerely, even though Clyde's glare intensifies. 

“How is Craig?” Clyde bites the question out instead of answering as he turns away to unzip his bag.

“Uh,” Tweek plays with hands, anxiously waiting for the journal. “I d-don't know, man.”

“Mhm huh,” Clyde cringes as he pulls out the book. He holds it tight in his hands, so tight his knuckles tense up white. His nails dig _like waxing_ _crescent,_ Craig would say, into the journal’s backing and Tweek knew Clyde was strong. Tweek knew he was strong but even though he’s lived through two fights with the guy, Tweek didn’t realize _how_ strong until Clyde started doing that to his notebook. “Craig’s good?” Tweek’s fingers itch to grab the damn book and be done with this conversation.

“Wh-why do you wanna know?” Tweek asks because he’s a curious bastard and maybe a _little_ bit possessive, even though he doesn’t really have a right to be. Clyde scoffs to deepen Tweek’s insecurities.

“He’s been my best friend for eight years, Tweek! Pretty much since _you_ left, actually!”

"S-sorry, I m-mean," Tweek fumbles with his coat. "Like how you left me alone with th-those, those,” Tweek yanks at his hair, _damn stubborn knots_ , _maybe he should've let Bebe brush it_  and flings his hands around. “Those _monsters_?”

“I guess,” Clyde clenches his jaw, eyeing their surroundings. “Guess Craig’s fine.”

“H-he’s not fine, okay?! No one, n-no one,” Clyde watches as Tweek’s shoulders jump up and down, inhaling loudly. He breathes so noisily, like a train whistle building up steam. “N-no one’s fine because no one p-plays Texas Holdem anymore,” Tweek adds, laughing despite the atmosphere. Clyde watches on uncomfortably. “No one knows how to _play_. C-can you still play?” Tweek picks at his wrist somewhat violently, unaware he's causing himself pain.

“Take your garbage, crazy.” Clyde simply replies, wildly unaggressive. He flings the notebook to the ground. It lands with a loudness. They both frown at it. Tweek gives him a look.

“Did you read it?” Tweek picks up the book, brushing off the cover.

“You write in codes.” Clyde states, pensively.

“I b-bet, bet _you_ could understand it all. My handwriting isn’t as shitty as it used to be.” Tweek says, watching Clyde’s expression change from upset to downright pissed.

“What the fuck are we doing?”

“I th-think we're, u-uh, sh-sharing?” Tweek says, rubbing his neck and Clyde notices the scar on Tweek's wrist is dripping cold blue black. Clyde knows it's just a trick of the night, that Tweek's bleeding is really red and normal, right? It's just a trick, but those men were all just rich tricks, too. Tweek eyes Clyde’s hand. He points to it. “Y-yours, it doesn’t do this, does it?” Tweek says, showing off the dug raw wrist.

“ _I_ don’t do that shit to myself.”

“Clyde,” Tweek looks pained. “I know what I s-said in th-the, the message but could you sit w-with me? Like we used to? For five minutes, I, I, I even have a deck with me,” Tweek fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a candle and an old deck of cards Clyde doesn’t recognize. “Pl-please, no one has to know.”

“Why do you want to be my friend so badly, Tweek? Can’t you,” Clyde shakes his head. “Jesus, can’t you take a hint?”

“I don’t want t-to be _friends_ , Clyde. I j-just wanna finish what,” Tweek groans, almost pitifully. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I just want to stop the voices and, and the flashes. If I kn-knew what they wanted, maybe I'd st-stop _remembering_ wh-what it felt like. Do you know?” Tweek asks, helplessly

“Tweek,” Clyde means to growl but it comes out exhausted. He looks to the church, peeling plain yellow paint and decides quick, _fuck it_ , walking against the door and pushing it open fast. He holds it for Tweek, who jumps to follow. “Five minutes,” Clyde agrees, against his better judgement. “Five minutes and I’m not walking back alone.” Tweek looks at him, incredibly surprised.

“Shit,” Tweek whistles, impressed with wide eyes. “O-okay, yeah. Of course.”

“Swearing sounds weird on you.”

“Craig thinks it’s fucking a-awesome.” Tweek says, smiling. Clyde takes in the sight, realizing how long it’s been since he’s seen Tweek do that. Clyde didn't think Tweek could do that same crooked smile. How badly has Clyde plagued Tweek for dead, how ingrained is it now that he's just written Tweek off for all these years?

Tweek’s very much alive, very much breathing. With every blink Tweek takes, barely wincing anymore under the black eye Clyde gave him, Clyde feels shittier.

“Craig would, that perv,” Clyde remarks. Tweek frowns a little at this but sits on the floor, stretching his cards in front of them. Clyde glances around the empty church, hardly able to make out anything. His dad used to bring him here, every Sunday until he reached age thirteen and the church boarded up. “Do you have a flashlight?”

“N-no.” Tweek blinks before he pulls out a candle. He flicks his hands in one easy motion and it lights up.

“How’d you do that?”

“D-do _what_?” Tweek asks, head tilting to the side, and Clyde's pretty sure he's playing dumb. “Light a c-candle, Clyde? Do you really want to know h-ho----”

“Fine, whatever. Shut up.” _It's just a trick, just a trick just a trick the loudest memories between them are screamers and that's not the trick, wait for him to_

“Yep.” Tweek says, slowly, placing his cards in front of him. Clyde doesn't watch as Tweek shuffles them but he sounds like a pro. Clyde could recognize that bridge sound anywhere. Clyde thinks he probably would shuffle like a pro, too, if he dared to pick up a damn deck. Tweek breathes slowly and puts them down. They’re not regular cards, Clyde sees, when he looks at them. 

“What are you doing? What’s this?” Tweek doesn’t look up.

" _Tarot_ cards.”

“Tarot cards?” Tweek nods. 

“One r-reading tells a lot about yourself.”

“Fuck that, I’m out,” Clyde heads for the door. He pushes against the wood, with all his weight and strength _fuck he thought he was strong, he is strong isn't he_  but it’s still stuck, built like a brick wall and won’t open. Tweek’s mumbling, though it sounds more like arguing, at the candle. Clyde tries the door again. “What the hell’s going on in this fucking building?” He kicks at the door. Tweek flinches impulsively and Clyde tries his best to stay calm.

“Why d-do you hate me?” Tweek asks in a quiet voice, so quiet that Clyde’s not sure the remark is his to keep. But then Tweek looks towards him, uncharacteristically somber and his eyes are just lit by the glow enough to see bags under them. To see that bruise Clyde left. Clyde’s not up for an argument, much less a physical fight. He’s too exhausted for that.

“Because you brought the monsters.” Clyde fails to keep his eyes dry. He blinks, smudges roughly at them because he can't get over how Tweek nearly looks the same. Tweek’s _stayed_ the same after all these damn difficult years, Tweek _believes_ in everything the same way he did when they were kids. Nothing’s changed for Tweek. Tweek hasn't washed himself like Clyde has. Tweek never  tried to convince himself that he was normal and fine and that no one hurt him and Tweek never had to do this all _alone_ because boys aren’t supposed to be victims.

Tweek never had to hide anything from anyone. That crazy glows and fucking sparkles everyday, with each colorful word he chooses and maybe that’s why Clyde’s so pissed. It’s so easy for Tweek to live in this well-developed landscape, in his digestible world. He doesn’t have to sort his puzzled head in reality, he doesn’t have to face reality.

Tweek couldn’t take it like a pill, with crackers and bread. He wouldn't take it like Clyde, with all its' side effects.

“I d-don't know how.” Tweek mutters. Clyde pulls at the door to the church again, but it still won’t budge. It makes loud noises as Clyde struggles with it. Tweek cuts the deck of cards in half, hand wavering before flipping up the top card. He's seemingly oblivious to the fact that they're both _stuck._ Typical. Tweek's separated from reality, a dead man floating, like always.

“Why’s this stuck?” Clyde almost pleads and Tweek frowns.

“You w-wouldn’t believe me.” Clyde walks around, looking for another exit.

“Isn’t there any other way out of this goddamn place?” Tweek stares at his cards, thumbing an unlabeled one he's flipped up. It's a drawing of a woman, blindfolded in white, sitting and holding a sword in each hand before a rocky shore. It’s heavenly. The colors are sea foam green and pale yellow. Tweek catches Clyde’s stare on the card.

“ _Two of Swords_.” Tweek breathes, airy. He looks thoughtful, humming to himself and Clyde’s curiosity gets the better of him. He walks towards Tweek, gesturing to the card, somewhat aggressively.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Sounds gay.” Clyde says. Tweek blinks at him.

“I-it’s _a truce_ ,” Tweek defends, glaring a little at Clyde’s flippancy. “I th-think, I think it’s about us.”

“Getting gayer.” Tweek rolls his eyes slightly.

“No, it’s n-not, man."

"I'm kidding."

"Oh."

"Jesus, you're thick."

"Craig doesn't think s-so." Tweek mumbles awkwardly.

"That's because he wants to bone you, Tweek." Clyde says, regretting it once it's out in the open. Tweek tries to blink it away, but he's shaking the longer the seconds go by and Clyde’s feeling shitty for saying this but he’s still fucking _pissed_ that his best friend ---- _ex-_ best friend ---- punched him in the nose and split the damn thing up all over  _this goddamn fruitbasket who can't keep his thoughts to himself_

"H-he, _jesus_ , d-don't," Tweek picks up his cards and drops them, hissing. They scatter to the floor. Tweek looks close to breaking and Clyde's so not ready to deal with that tonight. "D-don't say that shit, m-man."

"I'm just joking, Tweek." Clyde covers, though he's not sure why. Tweek's gaze gets eerie and quiet. Blank. His face is candle-lit and moonshined. He stares at the window and if Clyde believed in ghosts, he'd swear there was one in here with them. His spine tickles and he's ready to leave. He gave Tweek the journal already, what the hell is he staying for? 

“You r-remember when we f-flew to the moon? W-wasn't it," Tweek kicks back his knees. "Wasn't it floral, a-all those sounds? The moon's mouth t-tastes like purple and dimes, doesn't it? I w-wish Craig could've come. W-wouldn't have been so l-lonely.” Tweek admits, mournfully.

“We didn’t fly anywhere. We didn’t do shit, Tweek,” Clyde interjects, coldly. “We _still_ can’t do shit. The guy’s somewhere in Mexico. That casino doesn’t exist anymore, they,” Tweek’s breath spikes slightly. "Those pervs are probably wicked old by now. Or dead." Tweek squints at him, looking brawl-ready.

"Wh-what the fuck are you saying?"

"Tweek. Come on," Clyde cringes, squirming. "There's, you know, there's police reports and shit. How come you can't remember it like I do?"

"M-my brain works."

"Not like it should. Look it up sometime. You like to read, don't you? You were," Clyde begins, not able to admit the next sentence because that would mean admitting it to himself. "Your parents were friends with shitty people. Blondes are popular." Clyde feels sick, mentally, physically, _like the air is hanging his mouth out to dry out his mouth and tongue and he can taste bile, feel his stomach warbling_ but Tweek's looking madder and madder by the second

“No. I’m n-not, not a victim of _th-that,"_ Tweek snarls. Clyde's surprised by the venom. "I, I, n-nothing ever happened to me like _that,_ okay?” Tweek stares at his hand. It's shaking, his eyes are shaking. “I just want an e-endall, but there’s no fucking endall,” Tweek runs a hand through his hair, gesturing his other one towards the card. Clyde says nothing, just watches the flicker of the candle and thinks the smell of citronella is repulsive. “How come _y-you_ can take this s-so goddamn easily? I m-mean, y-your _version_ of the truth, even th-though it's bullshit. H-how come it's so easy f-for you to accept that?” Tweek asks, suddenly and urgent. 

“Who says it’s been easy?” Clyde scoffs.

“W-we, we,” Tweek blinks rapidly. “I d-do. You c-can’t,” Tweek frowns, shaking his head, wiping at his face, trying to rub out the eeriness he feels, in his resting state. This is supposed to be a resting state. “It’s n-not fair that you get to be normal. Y-you fuck, you’re _quarterback_ or whatever _sh-shit_ ,” Tweek hisses. “Whatever all american assholes get to be,” he mutters, under his breath. “E-everyone loves you, m-man, they all believe your w-word is the goddamn bible! I mean, Clyde,” Tweek coughs, picking at his card. “You g-get to walk around like a fucking cliche from the fifties and I g-got strapped to a hospital bed. We were the, th-the _same_ at one point in time. It’s not,” Tweek bites his lip to keep from crying because he’s not going to break down. “It’s not right.” Clyde doesn’t say anything for a long time. Clyde only sits and lets the sounds the shape of the wind makes against the old church attempt to carry them from Tweek’s words that fall true and sting like wasps.  

Some letters shouldn’t be used, so this kook holding out tarot cards in an abandoned church can’t remind Clyde of something that should go. Of something that shouldn’t have existed. 

But Tweek's uncomfortable, unstable and Clyde still feels guilty when he looks at his wrist. Clyde's glad they didn't fuck him up as bad, he's even glad he ran _he was always a rotten kid_ and he got away. 

Clyde got away _with less damage_ , not pure. Clyde definitely didn't leave pure.

Tweek was good at hiding, but even he couldn't stay safe in a sterile room filled with adults  _they were supposed to be safe places that hummed sweet lullabies they weren't supposed to have wandering fingers_

Clyde eyes Tweek. He sees the friend he used to know, before all this bullshit that neither of them can barely process happened. They reached for new comics, freshly printed, and didn't they smell so good? And always on the lower shelves, too. Clyde stole penny candy but he didn’t even eat it. He got a large lecture from the store owner because Tweek fessed up. Tweek felt bad, Tweek _always_ felt bad. He was always honest, he was always nice. He never wanted anyone to get hurt. Clyde remembers going to Tweek’s empty house, plotting how they’d capture light from the moon and harvest it. _Who_ in their class was a secret spy, an undercover operative? They played to catch a jewel thief, aimed to save the world and yeah, they watched a lot of _James Bond_. 

“It’s over, Tweek. It’s never coming back. Let it go and,” Clyde grimaces, releasing his clenched jaw and remembering, despite his best efforts. The tarot card is lying face up. The journal is tucked away somewhere God probably doesn't know. “And we can be civil.”  

“I won’t t-talk about it anymore.” Tweek mutters. Clyde holds out his hand and it’s so unexpected that Tweek gives him a double-take. Clyde feigns annoyance.  

“Just shake it, bro.”

“Really?" Tweek asks, surprised.

"I said I don't want to fight you anymore." Tweek shakes Clyde's hand, hesitantly and his fingers are dead cold. They slip away fast. Clyde gets up, tries the door again and it opens this time. Wind rushes in, cooling his face. "Jeez, this building's creepy. I'm still not walking alone." Tweek gets up from the pews, tucks his tarot cards next to a bible and follows Clyde out. 

"It's n-not creepy. Where are y-you going?"

"Home. Where are _you_ going?"

"Y-you said you didn't want to w-walk out alone." 

"I know," Clyde mumbles, feeling so small, so very small and dumb, even though he could lift a person with not much of a struggle. He could lift Token up, hell, he's even lifted Craig's tall ass. "I don't want to."

"O-okay, so you won't," Clyde can't help it. His blubbering starts up again and he fails to stop it. "H-hey, man, what's wrong?" Tweek asks, concerned.

"How come you're still nice to me?" 

"My bones a-are healing," Tweek says, shrugging. He looks at Clyde. "It d-doesn't hurt so much anymore." The moon glows blue and casts a shroud of shadows. It highlights everything wrong with them, highlights the streaming tears that Clyde's trying to rub out and Tweek's wrist is still stripped so raw. How can he act like he's not in pain? How's he _this_  good at lying, so much that he's tricked himself into believing he's being honest?

The wind will follow them, Clyde knows, the ice will melt and maybe he will be stupid enough to trust Tweek again.


	17. sunday pslams thick with palms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay guys before i say anything, the super-talented and sweet murgamurg made an awesome piece of art for this story and yeah dude you should check it out here: https://murgamurg.tumblr.com/post/169707769435/a-little-fanart-for-mars-smells-like-the-october
> 
> so, thanks for enjoying this story and i mean, i don't really have a plan but i didn't plan for it to be this long anyway? i dunno, at this point, i kind of go off of what you guys tell me in the comments lol. i really do wanna tie this story up, tho, soooooo all your comments are totally loved and appreciated. <3 this chapter's kind of more of a study, so there's not as much dialogue as normal...sorry! i promise that's coming soon thoughhhhhh. ;)

It’s still the same, even though Craig’s older and no one sings here anymore, the air wafts the same thick palms and psalms.

_You look like a nice boy._

His back pocket holds a note.

_You look like a nice boy, don’t act ugly._

Craig settles by _mars_ , leaning against the large stone and takes a glance up at the mourning angel that’s always been his favorite. Her palm touches her head lightly, breathlessly. Her wings reach over like a cocoon _like a prison_ and she’s this perfect damn prisoner of grief.

 _I can make you uglier_.

Craig eyes the heavens, only tuning to the sound his eyelashes make when they blink in unison. He’s wishing he had some scissors right now because he’d like to cut the string in his mouth that twists tongue-tied. Craig can barely open his jaw, though and hell, who’s he kidding? Craig can’t even swallow with his tongue like this, much less jam a pair of sharp blades in there to release tension.

Craig’s not sure where the note came from. It fell out of his locker this morning, slipped under foot and Craig doesn’t know how long it waited for him. He hasn’t opened that thing in at least a month. Maybe it’s not even meant for him. It’s pretty cryptic, he doesn’t really care. It’s a weird note, a weird _prank_ , which is what Craig assumes it is. It probably would intimidate some people. There are definitely more approachable seniors located near him.

Token’s locker is there, isn’t it? Even  _Clyde's_.

_You look like a nice boy. You look like a nice boy, don’t act ugly. I can make you uglier._

At least, that’s what Craig _thinks_ it says. The writing’s hard to read. It looks old, too, but that’s not the most interesting part. One side, what Craig finds the most interesting side, reads in different and cleaner handwriting:

_remember this HGD 35F and i’ll see you_

Craig’s waiting for Token now, by mars, in the cemetery and it feels oddly familiar. He really hopes the guy will show up this time. Token might be mad, but Craig doesn’t really understand why. Token’s late, though, he’s still so late for someone who promised to be here ASAP. Craig thinks it might be intentional but he’s tried his best to apologize, to make amends and even that’s hard for his gut to handle. Craig realizes he’s often waiting for that patient bastard, for Token who puts up with a lot more shit than most friends do. Craig's probably waiting a little too impatiently.

But Craig knows he'd wait, more mellowed, if he knew Tweek would be around. Tweek’s hulled off again to his own world and Craig knows there’s so much he doesn’t understand. There’s so much he won’t ever be able to comprehend.

Craig's a slow reader anyhow.

Craig would still love to know, he’d love to tell that platinum weirdo to elaborate when he looks close to breaking. _Elaborate, honey, sit down. You could whisper oddities or lies and I’d still tune to the symphony._

Maybe one of these days, he’ll actually say that cheesy-ass line. Craig hates how much he believes in that sappy shit nowadays. His parents have never really made him believe in love and he’s never so much as _liked_ another person in all his years on earth. How come Tweek had to ruin that, with the body temperature of a corpse and a fast talking, snapping stutter? With his outdated technology _probably worried about wiretapping_ and those steel eyes that Craig can’t ever imagine not running?

Craig doesn’t wallow in self-pity too much. His wrist breaks, his parents shriek that they’re just trying to understand why _but why isn’t the wood stacked_?

He doesn’t know why it wasn't stacked.

Craig doesn’t know how he found himself at home after school, the last week sinking into his head as he became part of the pale purple living room chair. Craig hates that chair, too, and from the anger that was apparent on his dad’s face, he guesses he spent a good four hours sitting there. That chair was only comfortable a decade ago, when it was sort of new.

Maybe he _was_ wallowing, in nostalgia, at least.

The hours passed fast, the notches in the spine up his neck got numb. 

Craig’s watching the bones shift under the skin, taught, on the back of his hand in the blue moonlight. He’s struck by how good they are at hiding, cloaking themselves under a fleshy veil. He thinks it’s funny how something just below the surface doesn’t always show it’s rotting.

Every year on his birthday since he turned fourteen, Craig wishes flies would swarm to the internally rotten parts of people. It’d be so much easier to tell how much encounters were worth, or if there was any live matter left for Craig to interact with.

_What rots first, the hypothalamus or hippocampus?_

Most of his classmates are dead inside, _like him_ , Craig figures wrongly.

The wind picks back up, knocks Craig’s face and makes his knuckles read chapped, thinking about the present. He spots a moth, collecting to some streetlight and thinks it's too damn cold for the little guy to be awake already.

Moths don’t weigh much. Luna moths, some of the largest species, they’re barely an ounce. There’s a cohesion to their movements, though, and Craig thinks it’s amazing how when the wind takes speed, their one-ounce-selves fight through those curves. Through an invisible current and although he’d never speak it out loud, it’s these little bugs that inspire him to keep on going.

How can they keep going, honestly? They must know how small they are, how minute they are in the scheme of life. How do they find enough to not just give up?

Craig likes to believe that theory; moths drift to candlelight and burst in the flames because they’re searching for the moon. Because they need the moon to migrate (even though Craig knows it’s bullshit, many moth species don’t even migrate). But he’d rather believe that then realize moths live their own traumas, form their own relationships that no human can see.

Craig would rather believe they want the moon, not death.

Water tastes sweet. The snow is nearly gone but the air is still fresh and crisp. Craig thinks it’s cold, but he’s always cold, and he wishes he had Tweek’s ratty, stolen army parka and not because that would probably mean Tweek would be there. Humming keeps him warm, sometimes and he tries to remember some old song he used to hear, here, by mars, after mass. Man, the churchyard melting is a sober comfort.

The temperature’s still freezing, biting worse.

Ruby used to walk closely by his side. They still do that some days, walk to school together and smile at each other only with their eyes, middle finger apparent in the regular Tucker accord. His parents were much happier back then, when the church was open or maybe, _Craig_ was just happier. They used to do things together, at least. They banded together sometimes, like a family and at school potlocks, they brought mac and cheese. Didn’t they?

 _Did_ they?

Craig’s dad did get him that baseball. When they played catch together that first Sunday, Craig missed the ball and let it roll to the woods. His father was patient back then. Maybe he was still hopeful. He just told Craig to go get it, _go fetch,_ and Craig felt like a dog already so he let his nose distract him. He ran to the trees, smelt sap and he fell on his knees, scooping up a wooly caterpillar that curled in his hand. His father asked what was taking him so long. He followed after Craig, pointed at the wooly and joked that wouldn’t make a good ball.

It wasn’t always bad.

His mom did read him to sleep with these stories that Craig didn’t really care for. He liked how his mom read the voices, though. She was always so animated. She waited at his bedside, growling out the monsters but bellowing the heroes until Craig was a big enough kid to sleep with the light off.

_Until Craig was big enough to realize good guys don’t always win, to accept that living on mars is impossible._

Maybe Craig’s hardened into an asshole, the bastard child he is, and this is the only way his parents can handle him. They only yell at Ruby, after all.

The melody that comes to Craig now on this chilly march, well, he forgets its full song. He forgets how high the notes go. Craig doesn’t realize he knows the words until he looks at the angel statue again. She’s got that expression of loss, something Craig's sure never conveys quite right on his own face. But her fingers are delicate and the latin comes surprisingly easy watching her stone cold emotion stay the same.

She hasn’t changed. She continues to mourn through the winter, through summer’s sweltering sunshine-wrought days and back again into fall. Into death,  _unwilling_  death, the angel continues to weep for the same person, the same person whose relatives are long-gone themselves.

Craig doesn’t love much. He doesn’t have a desire for new for objects the same way that Token does. He doesn’t constantly need to be surrounded by people who worship him, like Clyde. He doesn’t need to be liked. Craig doesn’t love much.

What he does appreciate in life comes in on breezy summer evenings. These things come in little bugs who are strong enough to carry _fifty_ and above times their weight. They come in supernovas, meteor showers and old songs played in a now-junked Chrysler.

Craig would also stand here as long as it took, mooncast in an abnormally freezing March, to catch a glimpse of ursa major interpreted by freckles.

They come and they go, Craig realizes, the things he loves. They leave and return in cycles like cicadas.

Clyde might not talk anymore. Craig doesn’t think it should feel this shitty, but Craig’s hand was barely still afterwards, obsessing over the all-too-true possibility of becoming like his dad. His stomach, his organs feel bound in layers of tight scotch tape.

It does odd things, his stomach. It twists and turns the more he thinks about how Clyde, his best friend, did _that_ kind of damage to Tweek. Clyde, ridiculous, goofy and most of all, a sweet guy, beat Tweek to a bloody pulpy mess. Craig still has a hard time absorbing that pure hate Clyde that beamed.

Clyde glowed it, though, he really did. Clyde glowed vicious violence and even now, Craig thinks his shock tied with his disgust. Beating someone who’s smaller, who doesn’t deserve to have their canis major freckles concealed by purple bruises, is nearly indefensible. Craig’s _still_ pissed at Clyde but he’s willing to listen, if Tweek somehow did something _so bad_ to earn that. The idea is difficult to swallow and Craig’s mouth tastes dry. He can feel the air hollowing him out.

Craig knows where he hid his baby tooth, after it fell loose with the help of an impatient fist. Craig always did have fucked up teeth that never knew when to leave, when to straighten themselves out and isn’t that what his dad had warned him anyway? To not be so _crooked,_ to straighten up.

Craig didn’t know the punch back then was rooted in how he stared at his best friend. It was something so disturbed and deeply planted in his father’s mind, that kids like Craig would have to face and wasn’t that his job? To teach Craig about the world?

The world’s shit, you better buck up, buttercup.

Craig thinks about his grandfather, wonders what his grandfather would tell him if he let himself be upset. The elderly man didn’t speak much. He was a quiet listener, with a good ear and he tried to redeem himself. The old man tried to redeem himself from the clasp of a long-lost war and his mind was taught. It was taught.

His flicking wrist was taught.

Craig’s grandfather tried to redeem himself, after leaving and living. He fell back into good graces and Craig never saw him as a monster. He never witnessed the old man as anything other than reflective, calm and content. That’s all Craig wanted.

Reflect, appear calm and maybe you’ll be content.

But never would Craig’s dad become just like his father. This was promised nearly every night in small actions, by Craig's own father when he was younger. Craig remembers it fondly. Mac and cheese, early from work, help make casserole, hopeful games of catch, science fiction nighttime stories. Repeat. School with Token, Clyde and best of all, with _Tweek,_ casserole, late from work, hopeful games of catch, science fiction bedtimes. Repeat. Church with Token, Clyde and once in a while, even Tweek, potato salad and takeout, late from work, hopeless games of catch, no rocket ships _._

The moon, his dad once promised him the moon when he was small enough to be comforted. When it wasn’t frowned upon to comfort your hurting son.

Heroic, even, when they’re just children.

The _repetition_ got Mr. Tucker first. The frustration of bills, every damn day. Every damn day and couldn’t Craig stop nagging to go to the planetarium? Couldn’t he understand that every time he asked, Mr. Tucker’s life was wasting to a sterile office desk? Everyday was too similar and _everyday_ removed itself further from youthful ambitions. Those reckless summer nights were long-gone, replaced with a brat who was pretty much born flipping off the world, _but behavior is taught_. All this distaste for the course of his life balled itself in the chemical imbalance Mr. Tucker had and waited in his muscles like a gasoline-soaked rag. It waited until Craig struck a match the kid didn’t know he held.

Craig wanted to see the stars, he wanted to see the lights and he wanted to show it to Tweek. They were going on a space adventure.

Craig did see stars but he was just a kid. He didn’t know much better.

The wind stirs, breaking Craig's concentration. Something about this place recovers lost memories. Every time he's wound up here, it's like opening a time capsule. There's a snapping of heavy feet and Craig spots Token, finally coming down the path. His lazy ass is _finally_ visible. Craig doesn’t get up from his slouching against mars. He keeps humming as Token approaches him, looking huffy.

“I know, I _know_ , don’t make any smartass comments, Craig. I’m late, let’s just move on,” Token says, sighing. Craig’s staring at the angel statue still and he wonders what her name would be. “Are you _singing_?” Token asks, incredulously. Craig shrugs, stopping the song and hearing a snap in the woods. He turns fast but sees nothing.

“No,” Craig blinks. He looks at Token, his thin purple sweatshirt and _no hat_ , wondering why he’s not cold. “You’re late.”

“Hello to you, too, douchebag. _Gee, thanks for meeting me on such short notice in a fucking graveyard!_ My pleasure, Craig, I just love being a broody emo asshat, too,” Craig doesn’t respond sarcastically, or jump in to stop Token from rambling. Token frowns at his friend’s clearly somber mood. “What stick is up your ass?” Craig raises an eyebrow.

“Um, terminology?”

“Craig.”

“What?”

“Why did you want me out here?”

“Can’t we hang out? Do we need a reason nowadays?”

“Fine, I _guess,_ " Token mumbles. "But in the cemetery? _Really_.”

“Yeah, why not?” Token shrugs at this answer, eyeing Craig, who’s pretending he’s not cold by standing tensely. Why _not_ a cemetery, Token thinks. Why _not_  be two soon-to-be high school graduates with nearly acne-free faces (fucking finally) and fake I.D.s hanging out in a cemetery? They sit for a long while, just breathing and inhaling. Craig thinks Token’s frustrated. “Why is this so difficult? We’ve been through a lot of shit together.”

“What’re you talking about?” Token asks, fairly cluelessly. Craig looks at him skeptically. He’s never been able to tell when Token’s lying. He once convinced Craig, when they were eleven years old, that Ben Franklin was still alive and well. Craig rationed in his way, saying he had a book of anomalies and everything, he’d never heard of a human living over a hundred and twenty-two years old and she was a French woman. Definitely not Ben Franklin. Token still managed to convince him, partially by saying ‘ _why would I lie to you, Craig?’_ and using the classic manipulation: ‘ _I guess you just don’t trust me.’_.

Token’s very brilliant at lying. He’ll be a very successful politician, Craig thinks.

“Nothing, I guess," Craig finally answers. "How’s Clyde doing with bio?”

“He’s not failing.”

“I wish he’d text me back.”

“He needs to cool down. You shouldn’t have punched him.”

“Yeah, okay, I hear that now, but,” Craig kicks at some grass, aggressively. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Token!”

“Don’t yell at me. I have nothing to do with any of this shit.”

“I’m not yelling at you!”

“Pipe down, won’t you?”

“Why? Because I’ll wake the _dead_?”

“Cemeteries are sacred places for some of us, jeez.” Token says with a cold glare.

“Why do you gotta go and say shit like that?” Craig settles, mad, crossing his arms, pacing and looking close to biting off someone’s head. Token doesn’t like to see Craig mad. It’s uncomfortable. Craig looks like he’s thinking about a lot. _That guy is too smart for his own good_ and it worries Token.

Token’s glad Craig doesn’t have easy access to bullets. He hates that his mind takes him there, but it's just one of those intrusive thoughts. Wendy told him about those, they sneak into your mind and make you think things that you wouldn't ever believe. Angry people shouldn't be around guns, though, Token thinks. Angry, depressed people. Hey, when did this all become Token’s baggage anyway? He still doesn’t know _anything_.

“I brought beer.” Token offers. Craig looks somewhat relieved, but still pissed.

“Thank god,” Craig says, walking close. Token hands him a beer, regretting it slightly because,  _maybe Craig_ is _prone to turn out like his old man_ but Craig’s a happy drunk, most of the time. Token just wants to make his friends happy again. He wants to see everyone laugh and he wants it all to be okay. “What is this shit?”

“It’s artisan.” Token says, laughing. “It’s my pop’s fancy ass beer.”

“It tastes like _blueberries_ , Token, what the fuck?”

“And isn’t it fucking delicious?”

“Weird as hell.” Craig says, hissing and gulping down another sip.

“You like weird things.” Token comments and Craig nods.

“Yep.” Craig admits and Token frowns.

“So, are you coming to the last bash of senior year?”

“In your barn?”

“Where _else_ would it be?”

“I haven’t been in a while.” Craig says, somewhat sheepishly. Token glares.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Is Clyde going to suckerpunch me if I show up?” Craig asks, nearly done with his bottle already.

“Hope not. My plan is just to get all of you guys so drunk that you think you’re duking it out but really,” Token says, sighing. “You’re just all lying on the floor like toddlers. That’s my plan.”

“You know, Toke, some people think you’re this brilliant guy.” Craig says, looking glazed over like he’s going to continue. He just shakes his head and Token rolls his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, what did you mean by all of us?”

“Well, the party’s gonna be fairly small. It _was_ just gonna be us three. Some other folks may have slipped in," Token's parties are known for being overcrowded, over intoxicated and obnoxious. "But, Tweek and Bebe, too. For sure.”

“You got Tweek to agree to come out?”

“I firmly believe that a person should decide for themselves when the right time to come out is.” Token says straight-faced until Craig gives him the most indecipherable look and Token breaks, laughing loudly. Craig shoves him.

“Token. The worst. That’s what you are, the fucking worst.”

“I know! But man, honestly, maybe one of us should’ve convinced you to come out. It might not have been so uncomfortable.”

“Dude, can we not bring it up again?”

“No, no, it was hilarious, Craig. You sent a us a picture of a pair of gay penguins and just said ‘ _that’s me and my future boyfriend. I’m gay, lol_ ’. And then a second later----” 

“I did not say ‘ _lol_ ’. I refuse to say ‘ _lol_ ’, _Clyde_ says ‘ _lol_ ’.” Token pulls out his phone, flipping back to his pictures. Craig groans. "Fucking ass, you took a screenshot?"

“Yep, yep. One of the best texts I've received. A second later, you go and send ' _omg I'm not into bestiality_ ' and, and,” Token laughs, reading. "And then,  _'Just the gay part, that's all that's true_ '. Ten minutes later, like you  _needed_ to clarify; ' _I won't fuck a penguin. That's awful & creepy. But human dudes, at some point_'. And you went with with, ' _Consenting human adult males. I mean, I'm not into old guys. A consenting male who is my age. There.'_  And, finally, ' _But not you guys. Srry_ '."

“Why do we _always_ have to reminisce about this?”

“Because! It’s fucking hysterical!” Token says, tucking his phone away. 

“I don’t think so.” Craig groans, sticking his hand out for another beer and Token’s perked up mood falters slightly as he hands another one to his friend. Against good judgement.

“Really, Craig?” Craig just shrugs and opens up the bottle against the nearest stone, popping off the cap fast. “That’s disrespectful as hell.”

“So’s all the goddamn swearing, assface, but,” Craig burps. “I, Craig the ultimate fuckup, digress.”

“What crawled up you and died?”

“Demonic baseball bats.” Craig blinks. Token looks around for any trace, any residual bruises but he doesn’t see any. Craig just looks at him, lazily and half-lidded.

“There are places that you could report it to. My mom would help.” Token offers, as he’s done for the past three years. Craig gives him this look that says ‘idiot’ and Token says nothing else about it.

“So,” Craig says, wiping roughly at his mouth and looking a little dazed. “Tweek’s gonna be there for, for sure?”

“Mhm, no jokes.”

“With Clyde, though? How’s that for a shit-for-brains plan, Toke?”

“You know how much of an asshole you come off as, right?” Token suddenly bites and Craig slightly sobers up before hardening into a glare.

“Then why do want to even be around me?”

“Because we’re friends, I guess,” Token says, defeated. “Are you coming to this thing or what?”

“Look, Toke,” Craig says, softening. “Clyde won’t talk to me. You’re close to sick of me and I don’t think that Tweek really cares when I’m around.”

“I see we’re in the self-pitying phase of drinking.” Token remarks.

“Dude,” Craig scoffs, laughing and it’s not as bitter as Token thinks it deserves to be. “This isn’t self-pity, I’m just being honest. Those are facts.”

“You’re so lame sometimes, man. Just come out,” Token pleads. “Again.” He adds, snickering.

“No, I don’t think so.” Craig quietly decides, in a passive tone. He swishes what little is left of his beer. Token pulls out another one.

“Hey, how about this,” Token begins. “If you party, I’ll give you more of these.”

“You can’t buy me off with this shit.” Craig says.

“Okay, fine. Think of Tweek then.” Craig grimaces, reaching for the unopened bottle. Token gives it up to him. Craig cracks it against the stone again, but it takes him two goes this time.

“I’m trying not to.” Craig says, taking another long drink.

“Why?”

“Dude,” Craig laughs into the bottle and it echoes, muffled and soft. “I’m talking about healthy coping mechanisms. I’m trying to move on, can’t you just let me move on?”

“Doesn’t he make you happy?” Craig sniffs, saying nothing. The shift of his eye, the slumped over shoulders and the tightening hand are more than he could in words. Token watches him carefully. “I would’ve done anything to keep Wendy around. She was so passionate, you know? And a spitfire. I still can’t stop looking at her in debate club. We fight like cats and dogs, though.”

“I didn’t know you liked her that much.”

“Craig, I know you’re not into chicks, but,” Token makes a noise, a humming confirmation. “Wendy’s fine. She’s damn fine. I'm pretty sure every male at the school has a thing for her. Besides you, obviously.”

“You bickered a lot.” Craig’s regularly even-toned voice has a drawl to it now. He slurs his words together slightly, and it’s barely noticeable though he has that drunk’s glow to him.

“Yeah, but,” Token scoffs. “I don’t know, man. All I’m saying is that you don’t know if it’s going to work out unless you try. I know it’s simple advice, but,” Token waves his hands inoffensively. “But you overcomplicate things.”

“Thanks for this,” Craig says, pointing to the bottle. He looks around, seeing a couple of the bottles already scattered. “These, I mean. Thanks.”

“Hey, why don’t you slow down?”

“Toke, pal, pal,” Craig settles a sloppy hand on Token’s shoulder and looks at him honestly. “Pal, I just wanna sleep. Best medicine right here. I was, um, I was lying when I said it was shitty. It’s not shitty. It’s good. _You’re_ good, Toke, you’re a good guy.”

“Alrighty,” Token says, sighing and patting Craig on the back. “You wanna walk home with me?” He looks at his drunk friend, who appears to be walking straight enough.

“I think I could sing a song. You got a tune in mind?”

“No,” Token says, amused. Craig grins, his lazy toothy smile and Token feels comforted that he’s still one of the few people that witnesses it. “Craig, wanna go home now?” Craig looks around, looks to the old church and shrugs.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay a little longer. You go.” Token frowns slightly but opens up his bag once more, pulling out the last bottle. He rolls it on the wet grass, towards Craig and walks away.

“Alright, sparky, here's something to keep you warm. Go fetch.” Craig rolls his eyes but picks up the bottle, feeling the dew on his fingertips.

“I’d be a classy dog.”

“Dog, yeah, Tucker. I don't know about classy, though,” Craig frowns. “I gotta go. My dad’s already pissed enough that I missed family dinner last week.”

“Sure, sure, okay. Thanks, though.” Craig says, rubbing at his face in an awkward and sleepy manner that makes him look childish. Token sighs and waves off, watching as his friend kicks open the old church door. Token turns as it slams shut with a hollow holler. He doesn’t look back.  

Token’s walk is home wrought with test scores. He falls asleep easily with white noise and only when he wakes up, does he wonder if Craig made it home or spent the night, neck tucked on a rickety pew.


	18. the last saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this is so long. i guess it really was a super slow burn! :/ anyway, dudes, i love your comments so much! this is actually all i have left written of the story sooooooo if you have suggestions or stuff that you think i should clear up, it really helps me finish it. for some reason, this chapter was really difficult to write and it's literally been forever coming. this should've probably happened in chapter 4 lol 
> 
> thank you for reading!!! <3

 

“O-okay.” Tweek says, carefully to himself, eyebrows crunching. He paces the grass, wondering why he’s here, why he even _agreed_ to come out tonight. He should be talking to Kenny and helping him move out of whatever weirdass limbo the dude’s in. He shouldn’t be standing in front of an old barn, hearing the loud music and chatter of people he doesn’t really like. 

The watch clicks his wrist.

Seriously, fuck Kenny for refusing to talk to him until he went out. That guy doesn’t shut up about  _ anything _ . He’s described all his deaths in great detail. One time, it was a parachute that turned into a noose. 

Tweek doesn't understand that. 

“O-okay,  _ okay _ . Okay. Alright, it's f-fine, it's fine.” Tweek mutters, because Craig is somewhere inside there and Tweek has to make amends, right? But it's difficult to do, isn't it? When Craig wound up in the old church last weekend, Tweek went batshit. There's a reason the place is boarded up. 

Craig was sleeping with his neck all bent against a pew and it looked odd, like a reshaped old wire hanger. Like the ones Tweek's grandmother used to have in her closet, stringing up her chiffon mint dress suits. Craig’s chest moved, falling back in that pattern only he has and he still looked impressively serene. Tweek stared at him for a while, watched him sleep. He watched, with great absorption, Craig’s eyes move under their lids and he waited for those eyelashes to flutter. Tweek felt like a creep.

There are monsters that tread behind the church and it’s dangerous. Craig has never faced monsters. Craig  _ can’t  _ face monsters. They’d fuck up his pretty voice, make him shut out the world and Tweek couldn’t handle that. Tweek couldn’t be the cause of  _ that _ .

Craig smelled like fruity alcohol. 

Tweek allowed himself one song, one song to stare close. He thought about covering Craig with his jacket. He thought about brushing the falling hair back and sitting there with his friend, telling him everything was going to be fine, _neon doesn’t scream, Tchaikovsky always wins, hands are comforting fresh linen and children never cry._ Tweek could have sat there, holding onto his sleeping friend, reassuring  himself that everything would be fine but Tweek doesn’t lie. It wouldn’t be. 

He shook Craig’s shoulders and told him to get the hell out of the building.

Craig argued back, still coming off slightly drunk and groggy. Tweek didn’t own the fucking cemetery, he slurred and Tweek bit back,  _ my mom got me a plot here, do  _ you _ have a plot? _ The rest of that late evening fell to shouting and raw screaming that Tweek wishes, for once, that he doesn’t remember correctly. 

Tweek knows it’s right, though. His brain never lies. It’s bulletproof and made of steel. 

_ Let me sit with you. Monsters don’t exist. I can prove it.  _ Craig had offered, even after all the horrible things Tweek shouted at him hoping he would leave. Tweek opened the door and told him not to come back. 

Tweek pulls on his headphones, adjusting the tape player and sweating through his shirt. It’s so hot, even though the sun has gone down. He presses play and hears, for the eighteenth time since this morning, the old folk song. It’s something Craig gave him; the last mixtape and it’s how Tweek remembers Craig now. His friend who sleeps so serene, his  _ good  _ spirit. Tweek doesn’t deserve a good spirit to care about him this much. He couldn’t survive the monsters without dirtying his fingernails and his taint is contagious. 

Tweek watches the sun drain the sky now and he thinks about drawing angels. Drawing angels on old card decks, on _expensive_ card decks while his junkie parents played for the big pot. He thinks about it lately, running a hand back, the stupid shaking hand, in his hair that’s always matted together. The angel across from mars. 

That was Craig’s favorite and yeah, of  _ course _ , it was. Good spirits always connect to something deep like that. Good spirits, they smell like fruity alcohol sometimes. They don’t shout, they defend even when it’s underserved. Especially then. 

Good spirits die with the cold-hearted. 

Tweek ruins good spirits, he ruins angels. He always fucked up his drawings, he spoiled his dad’s favorite pack of cards (the cheat deck) by scribbling what he thought would be wings on it. His mother was one, she was a beautiful spirit and look what happened  _ there _ . 

The wind doesn’t whistle softly. The evening’s not mellowed down any, the bass-rich music is only pumping louder inside that barn, so Tweek turns his volume up as high as it goes. 

Tweek hears a snap, a crunching that's out of sync with the song. He takes his headphones off, turning sharply to the sound and is half-relieved it’s Craig. Tweek’s legs still want to run though, when he looks at those confused eyebrows, but he keeps his cool bubbled down like it should be. He gives Craig a slight wave. It looks awkward and unusual on him, so he puts his hand down fast.

“Whoa,  _ Tweek _ ,” Craig blinks, stumbling out from the woods. Tweek peers around the area, slight curiosity. “You missed the junebugs, man.” Craig’s voice sounds sloppy and hazy. Tweek didn’t forget how much he loves it and it’s already slurry drunk. He rubs at his face.

“Th-they, they landed in my hair four times, d-dude.” 

“Really?” Craig asks, with a nervous smile. As quickly as that smile came, it flashes away. Craig grimaces, uncomfortable. “What are you doing here?” Craig’s struggling to put up a guard and it’s funny to Tweek. Well, it  _ would _ be hilarious if Tweek wasn’t sure that Craig hated him. But good spirits  _ don’t _ hate and Tweek’s positive that Craig’s a good spirit. No one else would try this hard to be his friend, would struggle to be as fair and calm as Craig unless they were a good spirit. Craig now watches Tweek as best as he can and walks up, close. His breath is overpowered by the beer. Craig pokes a finger at Tweek’s shoulder. “Well, buddy? Come on, fucking talk.” The moment’s tense and it punches the air, pulses. There are some cars passing by fast, over the two way road. Exhaust is running in the smell, even infecting the awful beer Craig’s reeking of. The sky’s turning a hazy orange blue. 

The horizon promises more than is possible. Tonight, Tweek’s willing to believe bullshit. 

“T-Token, he, uh, told me to come out. He s-said you’d be here.” 

“You look sweaty.” Craig comments after a long stretch of time. Tweek just nods emphatically, completely unaware of how Craig’s ogling him.

“It’s s-summer! I hate summer,” Tweek sighs. “No butterflies, I h-haven’t seen any butterflies. I think you were lying t-to me, cricket.” Tweek says, cautiously. Craig gives him a small smile.

“Hey, hey,” Craig starts, denying responsibility. “I said it  _ could _ happen.”

“W-well, I got sweaty and  _ nothing _ has.”

“Other things might flock to you.”

“L-like wh-what?” Tweek asks, fairly innocently.

“Don’t just  _ ask _ that shit. Christ, Tweek, you’re naive,” Craig mutters, fondly. “It’s dark out.” Craig says, whistling, instead of answering Tweek the way his body is yelling at him to.

“G-gee, thanks, nymph. You sc-scared?”

“Do you,” Craig thinks, hesitating a little bit. Tweek waits for him to finish his sentence. “Wanna see the lightening bugs? Earth ones. The ones in the sky, too, actually.” Craig looks up and keeps his gaze there, mouth slightly open in awe of the evening. Tweek calculates.

“Do you m-mean  _ stars _ ?” Craig nods. “It’s r-really fucking miserable tonight.” 

“I think it’s nice.” Craig shrugs.

“Of c-course  _ you do _ .”

“This thing’s all ripped up,” Craig gestures to Tweek’s shirt, torn, worn and stained. Really, two sizes too big on him. “You’re the only one who can wear  _ this _ and still be so hot,” Craig blinks, seeming to want time to go backwards. “I mean, not that I, um, not  _ hot _ . I don’t mean, um,” Craig hisses, realizing his backpedaling doesn't do squat. He looks away. “ _ Shit _ , Tweek.” Craig nervously takes another gulp of his beer and Tweek watches on.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” Tweek says, with these big eyes that Craig can’t look into.  

“I,” Craig runs a hand through his hair and Tweek thinks it’s nice to see the hair without that old hat covering it up. Maybe it’s the only good thing about summer. “Nothing. Nothing.”

“Is, I m-mean,  _ fuck _ ,” Tweek begins, biting his lip until it bleeds. “A-are you pissed a-at me?”

“ No ,” Craig scoffs, indignantly. “Why would I be?” Craig’s zoning in on Tweek’s mouth and he looks disturbed. “Shit, buddy, you’re really bleeding there.”

“I, I, wh-what? Oh.  _ Oh _ .”

“Yeah,  _ oh _ . Do you want this?” Craig rummages through his pockets until he pulls a folded paper towel. Tweek gives him a look.

“You a-always carry around paper towels?” Tweek judges, with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey, what are you complaining about? I like to be prepared.”

“For what?” Tweek asks, taking the paper towel. 

“Anything can happen,” Craig shrugs. Moths are collecting around Token’s barn. They flash their wings sporadically. Craig eyes them all, a wondrous emotion collecting in his face as he crouches down and concentrates, putting all of his clearly drunken might into picking one little moth up that’s in way of the door hinge. It’s wet on the wing from this afternoon’s rain. If anyone opened the door, it’d get crushed and Tweek's amazed that Craig noticed it. The little moth won’t die on that hinge because Craig’s cradling it in his hands. It’s such a sweet moment that Tweek’s witnessing, something kind and so damn simple that Tweek didn’t realize he’d be this moved by. Craig doesn’t seem to think much of it, because he probably does this  _ all _ the time and that just makes it even more beautiful. “What?” Craig asks, with his half-lidded eyes and the moth crawling up his hand. Tweek realizes in that moment, the heat-stricken summer night, that he'd stick around Craig longer than is safe. It frightens him.

“I d-didn’t m-mean to fr-freak out on you. I r-really, I, I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“‘S’okay, I know you didn’t,” Craig says softly, smiling genuine. Tweek’s sure he doesn’t deserve to be the one receiving that sight. The moth’s still walking on Craig’s hands. He turns it over. “Wanna hold it? They don’t bite.”

“I, uh, wh-what if I drop it?” Craig smirks a little. 

“I’d be  _ so _ impressed if you managed to drop it,” Craig says, dopily and Tweek feels heat on his face. “It’s got  _ wings _ , Tweek.” Craig points out, laughing softly.

“Oh, r-right. Right,” Tweek stuffs the napkin, now bloodied, in his pocket and puts his shaking hands out. Craig extends his arm, lining his hand up next to Tweek’s, turning it so that the moth crawls onto Tweek’s knuckles. Tweek smiles, though it falters and flicks a number of times. “I, I’ve never d-done this, man. Are th-they all so light?” Craig grins, hand still right next to Tweek’s. 

“Mostly,” Craig agrees, slowly. “I think it likes your sweat,” The moon’s large, a glowing orange being, lighting up Tweek’s hair and his eyes. “You really came out ‘cause Token said I’d be here?” Craig blurts, because he’s not that great at making conversation or approaching anything. Tweek shifts, his hand starts shaking more and the moth looks like it’s ready to leave. Craig instinctively puts his hand over Tweek’s, to stop the trembling. The moth flaps its’ wings around but crawls between them instead of leaving. 

“I, uh, yeah. Y-yeah, I did.” Craig grins, widely. Tweek loves that damn rare toothy smile, even if it's lazy and drunk.

“Shit, really?”

“I’m,” Tweek starts. “Yeah, th-that’s what I t-told you. You should listen, ass.” Tweek shakily sighs, whispering and looking at their hands. Craig drops his. The moth flies away. 

“Whoa, Tweek,” Craig looks lost. “Um,” Craig flips Tweek off. “Fuck you. Or whatever,” Craig puts his hand through his hair, once again, and Tweek’s own hand jitters to do the same. “What are you  _ actually _ doing here, though?”

“I, I, d-dude, what do you want from me? I told y-you the truth and, a-and, you’re  _ s-still  _ asking me!” Tweek twitches. Craig raises his eyebrow, though he doesn’t do a good job of keeping it serious. “I  _ m-missed _ you. I just wanted to see you,” Tweek admits  _ begrudgingly _ , but it’s worth it when he sees the look on Craig’s face. “I don’t, d-don’t wanna be a zombie anymore, cricket.” Tweek says, kicking his feet around.

“There’s a parasitic worm that attaches itself to some unlucky crickets and grasshoppers. It controls them when it gets mature. Like a zombie,” Craig begins, not really stopping much and just letting the information spew. “And forces them to jump in the river. They drown.” Craig finishes, somberly. Tweek looks at Craig, startled by this but also by the fact that Craig felt now was an appropriate time to tell him. 

“Wh-what the fuck is your problem? Why  _ are  _ you s-so awkward?”

“Was that awkward?”

“E-extremely!” Tweek pulls at his shirt.

“Fuck. Well, then,” Craig walks back towards the barn, frowning. “I need more of these,” Craig says, waving the beer bottle and walking to the barn door. He opens it, Tweek hears the rush of obnoxious music and doesn’t follow. He wanders around the outside, thinking he should find a tree he to hide himself in for a while. He’s not sure why he did agree to come to this stupid place. Craig pops his head back out of the barn, stumbling and looks at him in the eyes. “Don’t leave, weirdo.”

* * *

Clyde wishes his phone would stop buzzing. 

It’s the last week of high school and Craig has been texting him almost every other day with bizarre facts about head injuries. He's also been using _Star Trek_ analogies to relate to their situation. Clyde’s feeling surprisingly careless, naturalistically wishful tonight and talking with Craig doesn't fall into either of those categories. Token’s throwing one last party, tonight and that's where he's headed. Clyde will cling to that guy like a leech. He doesn’t like to be alone. 

Bebe’s beautiful laugh, her infectious jokes and those curves and curls are all with Clyde, by his side, lazily hanging that ocean hand on his shoulder. The night is more than dangerous. 

Clyde would hum something but he’s tone-deaf and with everything inside him, he can’t find one interesting tune to snatch his occupied mind. Nothing sticks out as anything other than annoying. Everything feels somewhat over and, more or less, Clyde’s past the mourning stage. He’s ready to move on. 

He’s done with math tests and Tweek believing he's being quiet with his loud  _psst!_ , tossing him the answers. Clyde's done with locking his room at night and waiting until morning. He’s done being mad at Tweek because it’s exhausting, it’s infuriating, and Clyde figures he won’t ever get anywhere with him. 

Most of all, Clyde's done with Craig.

What did him and Craig have in common anyway?  _Star Trek_ and their love of bitter beer? Was that really it? Craig never believed him about  _anything_ . Even when they were ninth grade and Clyde said he got to second with Bebe, Craig still didn’t believe him. Craig didn’t believe Clyde about the antelope he  _knows_  he saw in front of the school, Craig didn’t believe Clyde about the time he jumped between the tops of two buildings and didn’t fall. Craig just doesn’t like to be gullible, so why  _would_  he believe the real reason Clyde was so pissed at Tweek? Why would  _that_ truth be more buyable than anything Clyde’s already told Craig?

It’s something that rots inside, buried deep in the cage of his skull. Clyde would rather rip out his own toenails before he’d tell anyone. 

So there’s no way he’s explaining anything to Craig and what would he owe him that for anyway? It's not like  _Craig_ shares shit. 

Clyde hopes, on the surface, that Craig isn’t there. Yet deep in that skull, something that decays slowly hopes Craig’s sitting in the backroom, mellow with his slightly bored expression. Clyde misses Craig’s pensive calm, he misses the ease and he definitely misses the jokes they shared. But it's complicated, isn't it, and Clyde's emotions always run his actions anyway.

“Whatchya thinking about?” Bebe’s voice stops his mind as she leans in. She smells like papaya shampoo and shea butter. He gives her a smile, though it’s a little absent.  

“You.” Clyde responds cheesily, blinking down at her. She swats his shoulder. 

“Lame!” She says, grinning and not buying the shit that Clyde’s trying to sell to her. Clyde soaks in the night. It’s nice and warm. He thinks that Craig’s probably psyched about summer. He always hated the winter. “Did ya eat enough, ziti?” Bebe asks, light and his stomach churns at the nickname, even after all these years. “‘Cause, I don’t want to find you all belly up in your own piss and puke. That’s never fun for me.” 

“Hey! You were with me, too,  _last_  time... _weren’t_  you?” Clyde asks, still hazy on the events of the last party. 

“Awh, of course I was, sweetie,” Bebe patronizes, tapping his shoulder affectionately. “That was absolutely me and it wasn’t,” Bebe pulls out her phone, scrolling through pictures until she finds one. Her seashell green nail polish glitters under the closing in sun. “Your actual significant other.” She says, flipping the phone to show off a picture of Clyde, passed out, leaning with a crooked neck and unashamedly clinging to Token.  

“At least I’m the big spoon.” Clyde remarks, with an unashamed nod of approval and he watches Bebe’s face flick into absurd, joyful laughter. This is his favorite time of night, whenever she looks like this in this  evening glow . Everything’s clicking, it all seems right. 

“Well, I guess you have to experience that somehow in your life.  _I_  will always be the big spoon, ziti. Feel free  to cry off to your boy toy there if it makes you feel more manly.” Bebe offers, seriously and Clyde just laughs. They’re approaching the barn doors and Clyde feels his chest puffing out in excitement. It’s the  _last_  party. The closeness of so many people, the absolute safeness of these people in one space have always eased his mind. He's untouchable here, and isn't that something? He rests his arm across Bebe’s shoulder and opens the door, goofy, classic grin on his face.  

People greet him with flushed faces and drunken smiles. Lethargic and beautiful, every last one of them. They nod, high five and clap his shoulder. Clyde loves them all. Nah, he  _needs_  them all, more than they ever will know. He spots Brofloski, giving him some kind of salute and Kyle returns it with a sloppy finger flick.  

“Marsh!” Clyde shouts, watching Stan walk by. Bebe gives him a shove. 

“My ear!” She cries, dramatically. He shoots her an apologetic glance and she slips out from under him. She tosses him a smile and waltzes off. “I have people to see, too!” She shouts over the chatter. He smiles back and watches her walk.

“Dude, Clyde,” Stan greets with an apprehensive smile. “You doing good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Stan hands him a beer, easily, and he pops the can open.

“No reason.” Stan says, though there’s something he’s not telling Clyde.

"'Sup with you, anyway?" Stan shrugs. Kyle heads towards them, in his very particular walk. Like he has to know every step he’s going to take before he sets his foot down.

"Nervous." Stan mutters. He takes a drink, tossing his head back. "Yeah, I'm nervous, dude. We're so fucking old."

"Stan, in the whole scheme of time, we're just floating insects." Stan gives him a confused and slightly disturbed look. Clyde coughs and misses Craig's presence. He eyes the room again, hoping to spot the dumb old hat or good god, even that hair no one sees much. He doesn't even get a glimpse of that and why would he? Craig hasn't been to one of these things in almost a year. It's ridiculous to think he'd show up to the last one. Craig makes a point to avoid everyone. Kyle approaches.

“You’re perky.” Kyle remarks. 

“I’m just enjoying the night, boys.” Clyde says, grinning and taking a large drink.

“You gonna clock Tweek out again?” Kyle blurts, somewhat eagerly. Stan punches his shoulder. 

“Dude! You can’t just ask that.” Stan says, miffed.

“Why not? Also,  _ow!_ ” Kyle pointedly says, rubbing his shoulder.  

“Don’t be a pussy, Kyle.” Stan scolds and Kyle shoots him a nasty look. 

“Is Tweek here? Tonight? Really?” Clyde asks, somewhat disappointed. 

“Yeah,” Stan nods. “Yeah, Token got him to come out.” 

“Huh.” Clyde says, jaw shifting. He shrugs.

“So, that’s it? You’re done being a badass?” Kyle asks. Clyde refrains from scowling. He shakes his head, putting his best lighthearted face on.

“That’s not what it was about.”

“Well, then,” Stan looks stumped. “What was it about?” 

“Bebe,” Kyle starts. “I bet it was Bebe.” Stan gives him the stupid  _'oh_ ' face of revelation and Clyde feels his shoulders rising. He takes a breath and concentrates on holding it for a second, which is something Craig taught him to do when he got nervous, right before a big game. Craig told him to shut up, he'd be fine if he just put all his energy into balancing his breath for ' _one goddamn second_ '. 

“Hey, Marsh, Broflovski,” Clyde starts, clapping Stan and Kyle on their shoulders. “Do me a solid, gents, and fuck off.” He adds, feigning a smile and walking away from their crazed theories before they get to him. Among the sea of teens, Clyde spots Token chatting idly with Wendy. Token moves his eyes from her blue ones, briefly and spots Clyde. A big, open mouthed smile. He’s already had a few beers, Clyde can tell. 

“Clyde! Dude! You made it!”

“Duh,” Clyde responds, walking up to them. Wendy waves. “Why wouldn’t I be here? Who else would pass out under the table?”

“ _Such_  a burden, Atlas. What happens if you shrug?” Wendy remarks, snidely. 

“Hello to you, too, Wendy and how  _are_  you doing?” 

“We’re discussing the asinine bureaucracy of this country. So, I’m uneasy. Please join us, Clyde.” Token looks amused at Wendy, while Clyde attempts to process her snobby-ass comments. "What are your views on disaster capitalism?"

“Clyde,” Token says. “There’s a,” Token starts, dizzy, staring at Wendy. He doesn’t finish his sentence and flicks his to Clyde. “How much beer have you had? When did you get here?” 

“Just this one.”

“Gotta fix that, man. I invited Craig,” Token blurts. “He’s outside. He’s been drinking. Maybe he found some vodka. ‘Member freshman year? Remember that fall when Craig nearly fell off the bridge? He’s  _that_  drunk. He’s singing again. It’s ridiculously funny.” Clyde frowns.  

“They’re  _both_  here?” Clyde asks. 

“Hm?” Token asks, distracted by Wendy. “Oh, yeah, right," Token slaps his palm to his forehead. He looks at Clyde sheepishly. "Do you mean Tweek? Yeah, he’s,” Token gestures offhandedly. “He’s around, somewhere. I don’t know. He wasn’t drinking. Don’t kill him, please, he'll never trust me again.” Clyde shrugs and lets this new information settle with him. He tries not to let it build up. 

“I’m not gonna  _kill_  Tweek. I’m not mad at him.” Clyde says. It’s not Tweek he’s upset at anymore, not really. Not after Tweek walked Clyde home a few weeks ago. Tweek even waited to make sure Clyde could get in before wandering off to wherever the delusional go. Tweek was so fucking nice to Clyde and he’s sure he didn’t deserve it. 

Token gives him a grateful look. 

"Finally! Did he give back what he stole from you? Is it all settled now?” Token asks, with true concern. Clyde just nods, somewhat impressed that the look of pure relief on Token’s face has to do with a simple nod.  

Clyde wonders, maybe, if most things aren’t actually as complex as he believes. He walks away from Wendy and her holier-than-thou bullshit, scanning the crowd. Clyde knows them all, he  _loves_ them all. They make him feel safe, even if the time always feels borrowed. He looks at Bebe, standing in the corner grabbing herself a drink with the little upturned smile she has when there's alcohol around. She's radiant. Clyde feels grateful. He heads towards her and for the first time in months, his shoulders don’t feel tense like wound rubber bands, ready to spring. 

 

* * *

After an impressive intake of alcohol, Craig began sloppily singing old carnival tunes and attempting to explain to Tweek Newtonian laws, by acting them out. 

“C-cricket,” Tweek mutters, happily watching his drunken fool of a friend try to stand straight. Craig doesn’t do it very well but he does run over to Tweek, somewhat crookedly and Tweek can’t help but laugh. Craig gives a funny look. “I didn’t r-realize you could run.”

“Tweek, Tweek,  _ Tweek _ !” Craig shouts, looking at the sky. Tweek's surprised at how loud Craig's voice can get. He breathes in the air. “I fucking love summer.” He says, not smiling but looking content enough. 

“I c-can tell, man.” 

“Have you noticed all the, the,” Craig looks around, sentence fading, like he lost something. He rubs his head, nodding to himself. “I really missed them.”

“Wh-what did you s-say? Noticed  _ what _ ?”

“Huh?” Craig looks dazed. “Mmph, yeah, buddy! I noticed them, too.” 

“Sw-sweet jesus, you’re wasted.”

“Naw,” Craig frowns. “Nah. Do you think that Clyde’s gonna show? I texted him a lot, Tweek. I guess I shouldn't have punched him. You think he's coming though?”

“M-man, I d-dunno. H-he’s  _ your _ friend.” 

“Not really, not anymore. Maybe I don't want to be his friend anymore,” Craig sighs, and flops in the grass. “You didn’t deserve that, Tweek, what he did. I know what broken ribs feel like. They take you down everytime you breathe. It’s awful.” Craig says, somberly. 

“I don’t think he broke anything.” 

“Clyde used to,” Craig starts laughing, barely moving, except for his chest. “Clyde used to get so drunk he’d piss himself. I guess the roles are changing.”

“A-are you s-saying,” Tweek begins, grinning. “Th-that you have pissed yourself?”

“Oh, fuck no, Tweek. No, Tweek. You  _ know _ what I meant.”

“I d-don’t think I do.” Tweek says, quietly. 

“Shit, you’re so  _ pretty _ when you whisper. Was that weird? Is that a weird thing to say? I, fuck, yeah, Tweek. I’m just,” Craig begins, slowly. “‘M just  _ so _ goddamn happy around you.” 

“W-well, we’re friends.” Tweek says, suspiciously. 

“Yeah, that’s right, buddy.” Craig nearly giggles.

“H-hey,” Tweek begins, slowly. “Hey, C-Craig? Could you, um,” Tweek begins rubbing his hands. Craig watches him, smiling. “Well, could you d-do me a favor?” 

“Anything, yep. Yep, what do you want?” Craig responds immediately and Tweek gives him a frustrated face.

“S-see, m-man! Don’t be so, s-so _gun-ho_! W-we talked about this! I c-could’ve asked you to do s-something terrible. You can’t just s-say yes to everything!”  

“Um, wait. Wait,” Craig holds up his hands. “Slow down, weirdo. Just stopping telling me what to do and it’ll be fine.”

“You smell like a brewery,” Tweek muses. He waves his hand around, like a fluttering wing. Like a dragonfly. “F-from all the way over here, even. You’re _s-so_ drunk.”

“‘M not. Why  _ are  _ you so far away?”

“Stop asking questions.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“Why n-not? You seem to do wh-whatever I tell y-you to. It's neat, I must have g-great advice.” 

“Yeah, Tweek, you know I  _ would _ . Do anything, I mean. Like,” Craig looks around, tapping his hand to a slow beat. “ _ Anything _ . It’s cruel to exploit me.”

“I, I,” Tweek rubs at his hair. “I’m n-not  _ exploiting _ you. Fuck, I, I m-mean, y-you’re the one th-that’s so drunk y-you can barely stand, man!”

“Relax, buddy. I'm kind of kidding. All I’m saying is that you could totally exploit me. It’s like,” Craig begins, trying to catch this thought that’s far out of reach. “Like, what are you always telling me about voters?” Craig asks, rubbing his chin. Tweek looks suspicious. “No, no,  _ wait _ . It was about votings.” Craig looks at him expectantly and Tweek fumbles for an answer.

“U-uh, that’s not _helpful_ , m-man.”

“Well, Tweek, I dunno, it was um, _unfair_?”  

“Oh, y-you mean the five hour lines to v-vote in the general? H-how nothing really matters a-anymore ‘cause Washington’s such a, uh, a shitshow? The fucking '53 coup of Iran? How h-half our problems in th-the last century and  _e-everybody's fucking p-problems_ have to do with our paranoid s-selves about the th-threat of commu----” 

“ _ No,"  _ Craig interrupts.  "Sorry," He adds, sheepishly. Tweek shrugs, worked up slightly but cooling down. "It was something to do with,” Craig rubs at his chin. “States?”

“What are y-you getting a-at?” He asks, exasperatedly. 

“Maybe it wasn’t about voting.” Tweek rolls his eyes.

“That’s n-not helpful at all!”

“Well, shit, Tweek, you talk a lot about, about all the systems of power and how everything’s unfai----”

“----that’s b-because it is, dude!”

“Yeah, I know,” Craig hums. Tweek gets sucked into the sound. “Maybe it was about prisons. Yeah. Unfair, unequal power in the law. That was it.” Tweek stares at Craig. He can’t seem to move his eyes, they feel like magnets, watching Craig’s almost childish pout as he rubs at some non-existent stain on his sweater becomes so entrancing. 

“Oh. Um, h-how district attornies h-have the most power in the legal system? Th-that’s all I can think of, i-if we’re talking about power.” Tweek sniffs and uses the back of his hand to rub at his nose.

“Shit, yeah, maybe that was it. Well, dude, that’s what you,” Craig hisses at his shirt, frowning. “ _ Damn  _ spot.”

“ _ Out _ , damned spot.” Tweek adds, dramatically drawing the words longer than they’re supposed to be. It’s rightfully useless. 

“What?” Craig asks, stupefied.

“It’s Sh-Shakespeare,” Craig blinks at him, giving off a sour face. “I don’t even like Shakespeare.” 

“You don’t?” Tweek shakes his head. “Thank  _ god _ ,” Craig begins. “I’m glad you told me that. I’ve been reading a lot more lately.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Yeah," Craig nods. "But I still don’t get shit, man.”

“We c-could read together. Even Faulkner, if you want.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be some really dense, hardcore, tough garble to understand?”

“N-no, I, I,” Tweek frowns. “I get it okay.”

“Don’t abuse it.” Tweek scrunches his nose up. 

“Huh?”

“Your  _ power _ , Tweek. Don’t make me read something so difficult and incomprehensible that I break. Don’t break me.”

“I’m not  _ m-making _ you read anything.” 

“Oh  _ please _ ,” Craig scoffs. “When you look at me like  _ that _ .” 

“Like wh-what? I’m not looking like, l-like anything!”

“Yeah, you are. You don’t see it, but man, you’re,” Craig sighs. “You’re  _ something _ .”

“Uh, I, uh,” Tweek rubs at his hair. “Oh, o-okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,  _ oh _ ,” Craig says, rolling his eyes from the ground. He tries to prop himself up but looks incredibly awkward doing so. He gives up, falling flat. “What did you even want anyway? A favor, right?”

“Oh! Oh, r-right,  _ that _ .”

“Mhmm.” Craig grumbles. 

“Could y-you sing a s-song? Th-the, the,” Tweek blurts. He pulls out his tape player and shows it to Craig. “The batteries a-are dead.” Tweek mumbles. Craig just looks amused.

“Dude,” Craig gives him a look and Tweek shrinks slightly. “You want a  _ serenade _ ?”

“N-no! I just,” Tweek twists his fingers. “I, I just  _ like _ songs, like wh-what you were singing earlier. That w-was nice.” 

“You totally want a serenade.” Craig laughs. 

“Oh, fuck y-you, asshole!” 

“Ooh, damn, Tweek. So pissy.”  

“I’m n-not pissy!” Tweek shouts. 

“Okie dokie, wanna try saying that with less spit?”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“That’s rude.” Craig says, flipping Tweek off. Tweek shoots him a glare.

“Wh-what do I care? You can’t even st-stand up straight.”

“Tweek, we’ve been over this. If you want someone who can be straight, go hang out with Token.” 

“T-Token’s hitting on W-Wendy. I think. I overheard, from, from _Bebe_. She’s kind of, uh, clever with that stuff. I’m not so g-good at spotting it.” Tweek says, shrugging. Craig stares at him.   

“Yeah, that’s becoming quite clear.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Tweek tilts his head.

“Oh my god, Tweek, jesus,” Craig lets out a huge breath, sounding fondly exasperated. Tweek watches him intently. Craig flips around, stares at the clear sky. He’s lit by the evening glow from Token’s house and he’s not wearing that hat. Tweek spends a long time mellowing himself out by watching Craig’s chest rise and fall. It’s so even. “Orion’s so, so fucking _neato_. You have an orion, too, it’s under your good eye.” Craig comments and Tweek impulsively touches his face.   

“Wh-what?” 

“Nah, the other one. The good one, dude, it always creases first when you smile.”

“Wh-what? The  _ good _ eye?” 

“Yep. Better than the other side now, with that shiner.”

“It's almost gone," Tweek mumbles. "H-hey, how do y-you know that?” Tweek asks, startled. Craig shrugs.

“Smile for me?” Tweek doesn’t. He looks on suspicious. Craig sighs, sinking into the ground. “Don’t you love how orange mars looks?” Craig begins, looking at the sky again. He starts humming a song and Tweek feels his insides caving in. Tweek closes his eyes and feels still fast, zen. When Craig actually begins to sing, when the words form and bend and fold over wind like crystallized diamonds of water in December air, Tweek doesn’t say anything. Tweek doesn’t say anything when Craig gets the lyrics wrong because it doesn’t matter. Tweek’s stilled. After the song’s over, Tweek lets it sink in. Craig flips around to glance at him, dazedly concerned. “Hey, what’s the word, hummingbird?” Tweek cringes. 

“ _ H-hummingbird _ ?” Tweek questions, blinking out of the foggy land that Craig’s voice always echoes in.

“It’s a saying. My pop pop used to ask me.  _ What’s the word, hummingbird? _ ” Craig speaks, smoothly and freed of all his inhibitions. Tweek’s oddly at home by the talk. He doesn’t feel like he needs his candle. Damn Kenny. “You’re so fast like a little hummingbird,” Craig laughs, sobering nearly immediately. He nods to himself. “He was a good guy, pop pop. He used to keep cracker jacks in his pocket. He folded the cardboard so evenly. I always wanted to be that precise. It was so easy for him, he was a sniper, dude. He collected the prizes, too, in the cracker jacks, before Ruby and me were born. He had a ton of the old ones. You’d appreciate that, actually. He had some from World War II and they were all paper, Tweek. Isn’t that cool?”

“Y-yeah,” Tweek nods, enjoying Craig’s rambling. His voice keeps going and going. “Yeah, I, that's neat. I think th-they used to make the prizes in Japan. They stopped in 1938. Or 1937. Then they switched to paper f-for the war. Probably had something to with the U.S.-Japanese relations b-back then.”

“Whoa, how do you just  _ know  _ that shit off the top of your head? I’ll never understand.” Craig admires. “Ruby and I,” Craig smiles. “We fought over the prize so he always brought two packs with him. He was so prepared for everything. Did I tell you he was in the war? Vietnam,” Tweek shakes his head. “He was a marine, sniper,” Craig finishes, coughing. “Wait, wait, _why_ did I just tell you this?” Craig looks irked and tenses slightly.

“B-because you’ve had a shitton of beer and you like me?”

“Hey, you said you weren’t good at picking that stuff up.” Tweek blinks at Craig. Craig said it in a joking tone but his expression betrays him.

“Um, wait,” Tweek feels his chest rising. He feels a blizzard, a snowstorm, even though it’s fucking  _ hot,  _ it’s so damn hot. “Wait, wh-what?” Tweek’s pulling on his own shirt, bunching it up in his hand and Craig gives him a confused look.

“Dude, I’m,” Craig heaves a huge sigh. He looks conflicted. “Okay,” He begins. “Okay, you know how the, um,” Craig begins again, blinking. “Do you know what the,  _ the _ hypo,” Craig nearly burps. He regains himself, cringing with a hand on his sternum. “The hypothalamus is?” He says slowly, like he’s concentrating on the most important thing in his life. Even more than the moth and Craig looked dead serious about that.

“A court jester hippo, wh-who’s a bore. Hippo the Lamest,” Tweek jokes, somewhat flatly and he can feel Craig rolling his eyes. “I, I’m kidding.  _ Damn _ , I’m n-not funny, am I?” Tweek asks himself. “Am I not funny, cricket? Well, fuck me," Tweek groans and Craig licks his lip. "N-no, yeah, I know. I think. It’s in the b-brain, right? By the h-hippocampus.” 

“Yeah. Well, dude,” Craig begins, laughing. “When you say shit like  _ that _ , my hypothalamus thinks is neato.”

“S-sorry, man, I still have _n-no_ clue what y-you’re getting at, man.”

“Tweek, I really suck at this.” Craig says, laying his hands over his face.

“At wh-what?” 

“I’m pretty gay. You know that, right?”

“S-so, so, you s-suck at being gay? Isn’t th-that, uh,  _ jeez _ ,” Tweek blinks, twitching “Y-you shouldn’t say th-that around other people. They’d rip you f-forever.” Tweek whispers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Craig groans, sticking his head in the dirt. “My hypothalamus has decided on you, man.” Craig’s voice is muffled and Tweek blinks, trying to process the cyphered information.

“Y-you’re drunk.” Tweek challenges, voice rasped.

“What does it matter? It’s still big time, buddy. I like you,” Craig winces, face in the grass. “I like you big time, all the time. Why don't you see me staring? Everyone else does. Fuck, dude, I punched  _ Clyde _ over you. My judgement is clearly impaired.” 

“What are y-you  _ saying _ ?” Tweek's breath is caught, it's caught in a bear trap and he's not sure how to get it back again without ripping off a piece of himself. 

“I _like_ you, dummy. I’d even call you honey if you let me, even though it’s almost bee barf,"  Craig admits, startling himself that he’s actually saying this. But he’s had about six beers, some whisky and who even knows how much vodka? "It’s kind of gross when you think about it, isn’t it? Humans don’t eat any _other_ animal’s vomit.” Craig rants on, taken off track.

“Wh-whoa, whoa, wait," Tweek begins. "Why, _why_ would you call me th-that?”

“It’s something people do. I don’t know.” 

“J-jesus,” Tweek furrows his brows, attempting to listen to what's being said and he hopes that he can interpret it. “Wh-what, you like,” Tweek’s face starts turning red and he looks uncomfortably long at Craig with this inscrutable expression. Craig’s still face down in the dirt. “You _actually_  w-want uh, t-to, y’know, u-uh,” Tweek swallows awkwardly. His chest is rising and falling at an alarming rate. “With  _ m-me _ ?” Octave spiking.

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout it,” Craig mumbles. “I’m not gonna jump your bones or anything,” Craig says, calmly as he can muffled through the dirt, though he’s really pleading and _pleading_ for Tweek not to leave again. “Can we still be buddies?” 

“I, I’m not w-worried about _th-that!_ J-jesus, cricket! _Fucking h-hell!_ ” Craig’s still touched at the nickname and surprised Tweek used it, considering the situation. “Y-you think I’m a bigot or s-something?!” Tweek asks, somewhat rhetorically. Tweek runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip and looking contemplative. “O-okay," He rations. "Okay, y-you’re still shitfaced, m-man. You d-don't know what you're saying.” Tweek patronizes, blinking wildly. Craig scoffs, lying back down in the dirt.

“Hell, Tweek,” Craig coughs. “Why does _that_ matter? I like you  _ so _ fucking much, I could even love you. I dunno. What’s it supposed to feel like?” Craig asks, rather nonchalantly rubbing at his stomach. Tweek sits, still and untwitching. Craig eyes him. “Hey, hey, hummingbird. Don’t die.” Craig cooes and it’s warm when Tweek first hears it. It's warm and he doesn't seem to mind. When he first heard those lyrics on that mixtape, Tweek wondered if he was lonely or something. He thinks about what Bebe told him, after school got out and they were the only ones around one afternoon. Tweek just wanted _m_ _ aintenance,  _ mental maintenance, and Bebe gabbed on about how much Craig was into him _. _  Tweek didn't believe her. __ When  Clyde told him two weeks ago, Tweek thought he’s was just being an ass. Tweek needs time to prepare. He’s not ready for _any_ of this. What does it even _mean_? What would he have to do? How would he have to act? What would even happen? Craig sings to him now, sometimes, only when he's drunk and Tweek thinks it'd be nice to hear him do it when he's more cognitive. He thinks, yeah, it probably would be nice to wake up, looking forward to Craig's interesting facts and his easy happiness but damn, Craig's stubborn when he wants to be. 

Tweek’s pretty used to being alone.

The lyrics, those tapes, all the songs were  _ love songs  _ playing on the walkman , Tweek connects. Yeah, he did realize that a long time ago but he just figured Craig was clueless. He just figured Craig liked those songs and thought Tweek would, too. He never considered anything anyone told him was true, that Craig might actually want to sit with Tweek, that he would actually prefer life with Tweek sleeping by his side. Tweek thinks around Craig, he probably could fall asleep a little easier and doesn't that make everything more dangerous?

“Wh-what do you expect m-me to do with this?” Tweek asks. 

“Nothing,” Craig sounds low. “Nothing, man. I don't expect anything from you. You don't owe me anything. I just thought," Craig begins. "I just thought you should know.” 

“Wh-w _ hy _ ?!” Tweek says, louder than he means to and he can feel that Craig’s cringing. Craig groans slightly.

“Damn, don’t shout.”

“ _ Don’t  _ t-tell me what to do.”

“Tweek, I already said I’m not gonna jump your bones or anything. You really don’t have to worry ‘bout that, okay?” 

“I’m not,  _ jesus christ,  _ Craig!” Tweek yanks at his hair. “ I’m n-not a bigot!”

“I still don't understand the problem.”

“D-dude, th-the, I, I, uh, I don’t know!” Tweek shrieks. “You r-really, you really like  _ me _ ?” Tweek furrows his brows. " I m-mean,  _ fuck,  _ Craig! What am I s-supposed to do with this? What am I supposed to _do_? I’m n-not, I’m not  _ normal _ , I can’t d-do, I don’t even th-think about any of that!” Tweek begins, yanking at his stubborn hair. "I'll n-never be normal like that." Tweek mumbles.

“Okay,” Craig says, sounding reasonable. “Don’t we have a good time together? Aren’t we good friends?” Tweek nods slowly. Craig still hasn’t lifted himself from laying face down in the dirty grass. He sounds muffled. His voice is waving and lower than normal. “Okay, so, what’s the deal? I already told you I’m not gonna make moves.”

“S-so, so, why would you s-say anything to me?” Tweek mutters. 

“I just wanted you to know that someone loved you,” Craig says, slightly broken. “No pressure.” Craig adds, quietly. 

No pressure. No pressure. The good angel _loves_ Tweek, full-on loves his insufferable self, and it’s no pressure. 


	19. the last sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey dudes!! so i'm trying to tie up all the ends of this story --- it's super close to done. please if you dug or hated this story, let me know in the comments! constructive stuff also really helps me become better! and when you guys suggest things you wanna see, that totally helps.
> 
> thanks sooooo much for reading this far. <3

In the early morning, an hour before sunrise, Tweek waits.  

He waits in the dewed up grass. An hour ago, he let Craig leave only to return with _more_ booze, stupidly unaware. Brutish, maybe. Tweek didn't move. He stayed sitting even after his ankles ran pins and needles. He heard the shouting from inside, some crashing. He watched Craig pass out under a tree. Tweek wanted to wipe the sadness (and probably some regurgitated alcohol, too) off of Craig’s face. He didn’t.

It’s a different kind of anxiety, now. How he looks at Craig, can look at him and feel the hum of highways. It isn’t a feverish anxiety, with repetitive thoughts about everything that could possibly go wrong. Sure, his mind still jumps and lands there a few times, but he guesses he's stunned or something.

Now  _that's_ a normal reaction, right?

He nearly  recorded Craig tonight, with the old walkman and now Tweek wishes he got some of that drunk carnival song. Not because it was hilarious and good blackmail material, but it was warm. It was _warm_ and Tweek didn't mind it, even thought he's never liked the warmth. Maybe Craig’s figured out how to thaw his morgue-ready corpse, with all those pretty moths of his. Tweek did find air when Craig was sloppily singing. 

Craig seemed light, his voice threw out the dark worried circles, the tense jaw and neck. Craig seemed okay tonight, he seemed like he'd tasted freedom and Tweek hated how it made him greedy. 

The morning is growing, widening its’ sky-mouth, ready to swallow time. Tweek has sat in the same spot the whole night. No one has noticed his glare, but he's noticed them. They’re still vultures, they’re all so eager to look at Craig and judge, poke at him sometimes and see if he can stomp out a fight. Tweek's shouted and for the most part, the few drunks left grossly mashing their faces together. Tweek's averted his eyes during those awkward makeouts. 

The music has died off. Nearly everyone’s gone home, passed out or done whatever the nearly-graduated teen does. Tweek suspects there'll be a rise in the pregnancy test market. 

Tweek walks quietly, eerie in the dew, towards Craig. He inches close when he’s sure that Craig’s fast asleep. Tweek rations that an hour spent watching Craig sleep from a distance is already entering the stalking zone. If he’s going to do something this odd, he may as well commit to it. He might as well get a better look at his friend and see if he can figure the guy out. Why would someone love  _Tweek_? It just doesn't make sense. Craig must be more broken than Tweek. Isn't that how it works? Craig looks normal, he acts pretty normal, he gets good grades. He has friends. He has  _dimples_ and those lazy handsome eyes.

Craig’s hunched by the tree now. His old blue baseball shirt is hanging thin and riding up around his stomach. Craig’s dark hair covers most his face, neck all wrongly crooked and he looks ridiculously uncomfortable. His eyebrows are slightly tense and with the way his mouth hangs open, Tweek wonders if bugs will crawl in there.

Craig probably would think that’d be fucking rad, though.  

Tweek shakes his head, because he  _ definitely  _ hates the thought of centipedes crawling out of his friend’s mouth. Tweek settles by the tree, shoulder jittering and feeling the heat Craig gives off even before the overpowering scent of shitty alcohol wafts towards him. Tweek moves his arms with  _ dumb dumb dumb little shaking wrist _ and trepidatiously tries to maneuver Craig so he won’t have such of a sore neck when he wakes. Craig groans, sounding remarkably like a baby cow, when Tweek pulls him by the shoulders and he falls onto Tweek’s lap. The baseball shirt is way softer than Tweek thought it'd be. Tweek nearly yelps but keeps his cool pretty well, even with that warm summer air and shit, there’s the oddly comforting anxiety. Tweek thinks Craig would wake up by now, but he only makes one last weird grunt and stretches slightly before hanging arms onto Tweek, sinking to sleep. 

If Tweek couldn’t feel Craig’s patient breathing on his knuckles, he’d say that his friend had gone to death. Tweek doesn’t resist his urge to comb back Craig’s hair. His fingers sweep. He wishes Craig wasn’t so far gone. Tweek wishes he understood how to react like a normal person would. He wishes he could copy someone else's movements.

“He never got like this much,” Clyde’s voice suddenly calls out, causing Tweek to stop his hand and look up sharply. He didn’t even hear the footsteps, how did he _not_ hear the footsteps? Clyde’s a burly walker, too, when he’s drunk. How could Tweek not hear _anything_? It must be Craig. _Craig_ does this, he  always does this to Tweek. He’s distracting even when he’s not awake, with his peaceful face. Clyde gives a sort of nod, glazed over and walks towards the two of them. Tweek tenses. “You’re lucky you get to see it.” Tweek glances down at Craig, who’s blissfully unaware of everything. Craig’s blatant vulnerability ignites some kind of protective quality in Tweek. His hands clench on Craig's shoulders. He strives to steady them. 

“H-hey, man,” Tweek mumbles to Clyde, eyes set in place. “R-really?”

“Mhmm,” Clyde nods. “Yeah, totally. The last time he was like,  _ this _ wasted, I was fifteen.” Tweek flinches slightly. 

“Wh-what was it like g-growing up here?” Tweek gestures around. “I m-mean, _with_ each other, mostly,” Tweek picks at his shirt. “It must’ve been fun.” Tweek says, somewhat mournfully. Clyde sits down,  _ criss-cross applesauce,  _ and frowns. 

“It _was_ fun,” Clyde affirms, slouching in his eyes. Clyde points to Craig. “That lazy sack,” Tweek frowns at the words and smooths his hand along Craig’s shoulder, mindlessly kneading it. “Knew the best joints. He got us into loads of shit.”  

“R-really?” Clyde nods. 

“Yeah, Tweek.” Clyde smiles slightly. 

“L-like what?”

“You really wanna know?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, I, uh,” Tweek tightens his mouth into a smile that lacks joy. “I think it would’ve been nice to g-grow up here.”

“Well,” Clyde shrugs. “It was fun. I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t be. Just tell me wh-what I missed.” Tweek says, somewhat eagerly.

“Okay,” Clyde agrees, smiling slightly. Tweek sends him an encouraging look and Clyde rolls his shoulders. “Okay, so had this dickhead teacher, right? He said I was just a moron. I think he said a  _brute_ so, so Craig here,” Clyde lightly shoves Craig’s shoulder without thinking about the consequences of the action. He pauses, Tweek nearly stops breathing. They both watch Craig intently, waiting for his thick eyelashes to break open, waiting for him to  _ wake _ up, but all he does is shift on Tweek’s lap. Craig grunts, acknowledging sleep. Tweek snorts at the sound and Clyde smiles slightly, shaking his head. “Well, I need you to believe this infant was badass as fuck, Tweek. As fuck. Badass. He found that guy’s car and hotwired it. He showed up at Token’s stalling this damn  _ car  _ the whole way . It was some,” Clyde looks lost as he tries to remember. He pinches his temples. “It was some green sedan. Fuck if I know. It was old, bro, a manual and he stalled like, every twenty  _ feet,  _ Tweek. It was fucking great,” Clyde laughs, boisterous. The sound’s familiar to Tweek, even if it’s matured. The pattern has stayed somewhat the same and isn’t that a comforting thought? “Oh, the best part! Craig left it at a strip joint! The teacher was too embarrassed or something to find who did it so Craig never got in trouble.” Clyde giggles slightly, still somewhat intoxicated. Tweek’s eyes are brightening at the imagery. “No one knows so,  _ shhh _ , yeah?” Clyde says, finger to his mouth. Tweek mimes zipping his own lips and throwing the key away.

“Deal.”

“Just like when we were kids, huh?” Tweek grins widely at the sentiment.

“Shit, man, what was it we d-did? The h-handshake?” Clyde sticks out his hand, rolling up his sleeve. Tweek puts his out, the dumb shaking wrist. They do a sloppy, childish _secret_ handshake, fumbling and Clyde’s hand’s sweaty but what else is new? Tweek’s glad not everything changes. Clyde buzzes, looking surprisingly pleasant. Tweek wishes Craig was awake, he wishes Token would find it in his heart to tear himself away from Wendy and the four of them could sit together again. They could play games like they used to. 

Tweek misses their games.

Clyde gives him this glassy eyed face, now. It's goofy and red-flushed in the summer night. Craig’s breath knocks against Tweek's knee, the baseball shirt is so fucking soft under his hands and it smells like fresh lemon and Craig, underneath the alcohol. Tweek figures this is a close second.

“Wh-what else?” Tweek asks.

“What else?" Clyde looks confused. "What else did he _do_?” Tweek nods, urgently. “Okie dokie, Tweeks, lemme think,” Clyde says, tapping on his knee. Tweek is surprised by the nickname but chalks it up to Clyde’s still buzzed state. It's another reminder of the bleary past. “Oh! I kept complaining to him, yanno, about why he didn’t just get a cell phone when we were in middle school. He tacked notes up all over the school one day. One said,  _ this is progress, Clyde _ . I didn’t get it. Hell,  _ I still  _ don’t get it. He’s fucking weird.” Clyde laughs, reminiscing. 

“He misses you,” Tweek blurts. “Don’t you miss him, m-man? I w-would,” Tweek says. “I  _ did _ .” Tweek admits, thoughtfully.  

“It’s complicated.” Clyde says, gruff.

“C-couldn’t you forgive him?” Clyde shrugs, not answering. Tweek sighs, in a slightly frustrated tone. “It was just a nosebleed, man. I forgave  _ you  _ and you did  _ w-way _ worse,” Tweek points out. “I still have a limp, man. I'll never ever walk again.” Tweek deadpans.

“Jeez, you pick that sarcasm up from Craig? Are you two doing the nasty now or what?” Clyde asks, instead and Tweek chokes on his own spit, coughing away. Clyde laughs at him and Tweek squints his eyes shut, trying to keep his frustration at a minimal level. 

“Wh-what are you,  _ twelve _ ?” Tweek asks, with a slight scowl. Clyde smiles slightly and Tweek returns it. Tweek’s sleeping, wasted angel twists face up. Tweek’s breath leaves him again, when he looks down and sees those shut eyes, the small mole Craig’s got under his eye. 

Tweek can’t believe this beautiful mess loves _him_. The stuttering corpse.

“You know how much he likes you, right?” Clyde asks. Tweek has the briefest bit of panic, that mind-reading might exists. But Clyde probably would see all that shit about ghosts and be running by now, if he could read minds. Clyde yawns. Tweek guesses maybe Clyde can't read minds. “It’s actually kind of gross.”

“H-he, uh, he mentioned something like th-that earlier.” 

“Shit, really? Really? Wow! Wish I was there. I didn’t think he had the stones.”

“It’s true? Wh-what he, I mean, uh,” Tweek mumbles, red by the ears. “You know.” Clyde frowns. 

“Yeah.” The way Clyde says it, he might as well be saying  _ unfortunately _ . “He’s never liked anyone, not really. I’ve tried for years, Tweek. He’s always into those damn bugs. It’s a real turn off. You won’t believe how many girls _wanted_ to date him before they actually had a conversation with him. He's kind of a prick.” 

“He’s not a prick!" Tweek defends. "H-he's  _ e-easy _ to talk to.” 

“You like bugs, Tweek?” Clyde asks, somewhat amused.  

“I’m l-learning, dude. Th-they actually, they’re cool. You know th-that field guide Craig has?” Clyde rolls his eyes. Or, tries to. It just comes off like he’s squinting with one eye. 

“How can I not? He brought it to the movies four times, dude.  _ Four  _ times, every fucking Marvel movie, too, he brought the damn bug book,” Tweek snickers. Clyde gives off a hurt face. “What? It’s not funny! He didn’t pay any attention!”

“It’s, i-it’s  _ kinda _ funny.” Tweek admits. 

“Dude. He brought a flashlight,” Tweek’s smile grows. “He sat in the backrow.”

“Why’d he even go?”

“I was scared, okay, Tweek?” Tweek full out laughs. "He just," Clyde looks somewhat embarrassed. "I asked him to go so I wouldn't cry in public alone."

 “You? Of _wh-what_? Doesn’t Disney own th-them now? How are th-they even remotely scary?”

“Have you ever seen them? They're not scary so much as _sad_ , dude. I wept for weeks.”

“I d-don’t watch many blockbusters. S-sorry.” 

“What do you watch?”

“Documentaries. Th-there’s a fascinating one about these f-farmers who were brothers and they were semi-literate. They lived in isolation in this little run-down shack their whole lives, up until one of them die----”

“---ugh, you two. You two are horribly boring people, you belong together.” 

“It’s a r-really good documentary. It like, explores motives for mercy killing.”

“Dude, shit, really? Why would I want to watch that?” Tweek shrugs. 

“It’s interesting, Clyde. I f-felt bad for them. I don’t know. The brothers were ostracized by their town before Bill died and only when press got involved and police did the town like, rally behind Delbert. That’s the brother who w-was accused of murder. Of murdering Bill.”

“Okay, Tweek,” Clyde says, slightly peeved. “Thanks for all that information.”

“You’re welcome.” Tweek says, blinking obliviously. Clyde shakes his head. 

“I bet Craig’s so fucking into you when you say shit like that.”

“Clyde,” Tweek starts, still absentmindedly resting his hands on Craig. “C-Clyde, man, h-how,” Tweek sniffs. “How? Wh-what do I do? Y-you gotta know, I mean, ‘cause you have Bebe?” Tweek grimaces. “I know I _s-said_ I wouldn’t say anything and shit, I r-really _don’t_ want to b-but,” Tweek starts fast and gives the briefest of glances towards Clyde. Clyde doesn’t look mad. He just looks like he expected Tweek to bring this up again. “But I d-don’t think I’m normal. I th-think they, when they,” Tweek chokes on a cough. “When they _did_ what they did, they took s-something. H-how, how do you feel?”  

“You’re not normal,” Clyde agrees. Tweek frowns. “No, you’re not. You’re whack, bro. Dunno what to tell you. I don’t even  _ know _ what you’re asking me.”

“I guess I d-don’t either,” Tweek decides, settling in. Clyde watches them carefully. Tweek looks down at his shitfaced friend with this contorted expression, a strange mix of anxiety and adoration. Clyde shakes his head. “It’d, it’d be w-way easier if he was an asshole.” 

“He  _ is _ , Tweek.” Clyde says, unblinking. 

“No, man, n-no,” Tweek smiles softly. “No, he’s r-really not. You know,” Tweek starts. He breaks his gaze on Craig and looks at Clyde. “You a-aren’t either.” Clyde scoffs.

“You’re not bitter at all. How come you’re still this good guy underneath? How’d you do it?” Clyde asks. Tweek’s surprised by the question. 

“I’m n-not doing anything special,” Tweek says, sighing. “Just breathing,” Tweek looks around. 

“Don’t you ever want to take a break from it?” Clyde asks, with stilted speech. Tweek’s very aware of the sleeping weight, his dumb cricket, holding him to earth, grounding him. Grounding him with those way-too-relaxed hands. It’s kind of unfair.

“What a-are _you_ asking me, man?” Tweek whispers. Clyde sniffles. He shrugs pathetically and suddenly, he looks so small to Tweek. Clyde’s red cheeks, his glassy eyes grow. Clyde looks just like that kid who tripped, fell under a bad moon and still kept running, even though he knew he wouldn’t get far. Tweek closes his eyes and leans back. “T-tell you what, Clyde,” He begins, stale and worn. “My best p-prospect is still the noose in my backpack,” Tweek says. Clyde sniffles erupt into full blown tears. Tweek opens his eyes. “Hey, m-man, don’t cry. What are you doing that f-for? It’s a joke.” 

“It’s not funny,” Clyde chokes out. “It’s  _ dark _ .” Tweek shifts uncomfortably. 

“That’s wh-why,” Tweek shifts, he stares intently at the sky. “That’s why G-god built those, isn’t it?” Tweek point to the sky. “Church, th-that’s all I remember,” Tweek says, shrugging. “I don’t know. Never m-made sense to me. They look like those holes we punched in the cardboard box, don’t they?” He points to the sky. Clyde stares at him. “Wh-what if we truly  _ are _ some kid’s science project?” Tweek wonders, absently.  _ Must be a good one, must be an A+, if Craig exists because of it _ . 

“Do you really have a noose? Like, legit?” Clyde blurts. 

“It’s for a friend,” Tweek mumbles and Clyde doesn’t know how to continue this conversation. He frowns, mouth running into a straight line. Tweek eyes him carefully. “What did you want me to s-say? You f-felt better with the fable. It’s,” Tweek looks very seriously at his hands, like they’ve got cryptic instructions to saving the universe on them. “The lie is digestible.”

“Not always, Tweek,” Clyde rubs roughly at his face. “Why don’t you wait for death to happen on its’ own? That’s my plan.”

“Th-that’s inconvenient.”

“You’re weird, Tweek.” Clyde says, with a disturbed look on his face. Tweek shrugs at him.

“Don’t really g-give a shit.” Tweek hums something delightful, holding onto Craig. Clyde stares at the two of them. 

“Bebe’s  _ my _ queen.” Clyde says, somewhat dreamily.

“Wh-what does that make you? The c-court jester?” Tweek bites out, softly. Clyde offers a tight smile. 

“Yeah. Sure. The whole goddamn kingdom, too. Don’t tell her I called her a queen. She’d hate it.” 

“I d-don’t know, she likes y-you a lot. Even with all the fuckery you get into.” 

“I’m lucky.” Clyde says quick, with a squinting eye at the moon. Tweek nods, watching the shadows shift over Craig’s face. Craig barely makes noise and Tweek wishes he would make some kind of sound. He doesn’t even snore softly. The only way Tweek can be sure he’s alive is by keeping his hand hovering over Craig’s chest, to feel it rise and lower. The orange moon casts even through the trees. Tweek’s eyes feel heavy, in the early summer Sunday morning. They close involuntarily, only for Tweek to snap them open seconds later. He rubs at his face. Clyde’s watching the sky, now fully on his back, across from Tweek. 

“Yeah, y-yeah.” Tweek agrees, finally. His shoulders slope, slumping in this dream-ready mindset and Tweek feels ease. His chin touches his chest. He spares a glance downward towards his friend.

“What?” Clyde asks, curious. 

“I’m lucky, too.” Tweek mumbles, with sleep calling him by name. It’s the first time he’s dreamt anything specific in years.

He dreams of insects building nests out of cotton candy. Someone plays a hand over, ace-to-five, ace-to-six and there’s a dead blind, too. 

* * *

_ So, you get how there’s a puzzle, right? And you got all your pieces and everything, but you don’t have the box it goes in? _

“Fuck, n-no. Wh-what the hell are you talking about?”

_ Didn’t you ever get used toys? All the puzzles came in ziplocs.  _

“My parents b-bought me new stuff, Kenny. I never had, u-uh, h-hand me downs.”

_ Alright, guess that’s the only nice thing they did for ya.  _

“D-don’t talk shit about them. I l-loved them.”

_ I know you did. You can love someone and still hate what they meant to you. It’s called….oh, fuck, boy, what’s it called? It’s got a name. Ah, shit. Well. Anyway, that’s just how life works.  _ If Kenny had a cigarette, if ghosts could smoke, he’d light up. _ What a funny song she sang you.  _

“What?”

_ Mommy dearest. Gosh, she was intense.  _

“What are you t-talking about?”

_ Come on, Tweek, that thing’s playing so goddamn loud in your head.  _ The gents and the gamblers standing all around, taking little Sadie to her burial ground.  _ Fuck if that’s not creepy. And it was your lullaby? I don’t know ‘bout that, Tweek.  _

“It was the Grateful Dead, d-dude, how they sung it. It was,” Tweek sighs, shakily. “Sh-she  _ loved _ that stuff, all that folk stuff. And, hey, Kenny? You know what?  _ This _ is kinda creepy. What you’re doing, right now, th-that’s what’s creepy, man.” 

_ I can’t help it. I just see a lot. It’s not controlled. If it makes you feel better, everything’s muted. I can’t hear much. It’s hard to understand. _

“Can you sh-shut your eyes ever? I m-mean, sometimes, I feel like y-you know more about me than I do,” Tweek snorts, somewhat nervously. A silence chews on the seconds. Tweek flinches. “K-Kenny? Uh, y-you cut out on m-me, man?”

_Um, Tweekie,_ _I’m a ghost. I don’t have eyes._

“W-well, how the fuck can you s-see  _ anything _ ? And don’t call me  _ that _ .”

_ Dude, it’s in senses, I don’t know. It’s hard to explain it just --- will you let me finish my fucking tale? _

“Sorry, I d-didn’t know that you had a tale. I th-thought you were just droning mindlessly.”

_ Hey, that’s bitchy. Ooh, what about bitch? Are you better with that nickname? ‘Cause I’m a little in love with it. I think it sums you up well, actually. _

“R-rude.” 

_ As I was saying! Puzzles, you know? _

“Not r-really.”

_ It was a rhetorical question.  _

“What rhetorical a-about asking ‘ _ puzzles’ _ ?”

_ Dude, dude, learn to shut up once in a while, okay?  _ Tweek tenses. He airs quietness.  _ Good. Good boy.  _ Tweek winces. The candle flickers. _ Oh, shit, sorry ‘bout that.  _ Kenny remorsefully communicates.

“Don’t be. Th-that’s just, it just wigs me out, man. I d-don’t know why.”

_Probably for the best, actually._ _Alright. So. You cool if I continue?_  Quiet quiet quiet. Tweek, _yo, Tweek? Cool, dude?_

“Th-thought it was a rhetorical question. Yeah. Sure.”

_ Snappy, alright. So, as I was saying, this is our life now. Puzzles. We have these pieces, right? But no picture.  _

“ _ I _ d-don’t have all my pieces.”

_ Yes, you do, Tweek. You do, motherfucker, you just put them away. So, okay, like sometimes, when I was a kid, the picture wasn’t so good, you know? Like, I spent all this time piecing the damn puzzle and the final picture just sucked monkey balls. Like some small boring cornfield or peaches. Yanno? _

“I like f-fields. Wh-what the fuck are you saying?” Tweek snorts laughter. “Wh-what do you have against produce?”

_ Tweek, gosh dammit. What I’m saying is that the picture, dude! The picture isn’t worth all the time, you know? Sometimes it’s for the best to shove it under your bed, in a box, and just leave that ziploc alone.  _

“Th-that’s not what psychology says. Th-that’s actually really bad for your, y-your uh, head.” 

_ Well, those scientists don’t know everything. They all thought you were nuts, didn’t they?  _

“ _ That’s  _ rhetorical. That’s h-how you uh, use the word.” 

_ Hey, look at him _ . 

“Wh-what?” Tweek twitches. 

_ I didn’t realize Craig had a beauty mark. Sexy. _

“Why are you saying th-that?! How’d  _ th-that  _ come up?” Tweek looks around, somewhat frantically, but finds himself alone in the dark church. Alone with a few dozen ghosts and a flickering candle.

_ Relax, kitty cat. The second someone mentions science to you, it’s like all you got in there is Tucker _ . 

“Goddammit, I  _ d-don’t _ ! Jesus, Kenny! can’t you just m-mind your own fucking business?”

_ I’m trying to, but your thoughts are  _ so _ loud, Tweek! Kind of innocent, too. Actually, it’s sweet, you know? Like a little fairy tale. It’s nice you can do that, with all that garbage you got on you. I had no idea Tucker was such a sap, though - I mean, holy fuckballs! He’s a little pathetic, right? Token always throws the best parties and Craig just spends the entire night getting wasted with you, only you're sober, in the backyard? Where’s the fun in that? No offense, Tweek, you’re good company and all but you’re not exactly fun.  _

“ _ Jeez _ . Okay, I uh, I know that, Ken,” Tweek frowns. “I guess you heard what h-he, uh, wh-what he said t-to me, right?”

_ Yep! You got it looping in there, your little sweetheart. Man oh, man, that was depressing. Poor guy. He handled it well, though, I mean your reaction. You’re brutal.  _

“I didn’t know wh-what to do. I, uh, I still don’t.” 

_He was shitfaced, dude, I doubt he remembers most of the night. Just listen to what I told you, yeah? Act normal. Act fine. What was it your mom said? ‘Plead kind, they’ll believe you’re fine’? Was that it?_  

“ _ Act _ kind, you’ll be fine.” Tweek corrects. 

_ Oh, right. Well, just shove it under a rug and pretend it doesn’t exist. Pretend it never happened. If you want things to be your version of normal again. If you want your routine back. _

“I, h-how am I supposed to do that?”

_ Hold your head high. Don’t twitch. Don’t flinch. Don’t stare. Just go back to reading your damn little books until you’ve read enough about guts to fess up.  _

“What if I d-don’t ever?”

_ Well. You can always be a librarian. _  Tweek frowns at the thought of living past twenty five.  _ Tucker’s so fucking into you. _

“Wh-what if he’s not?”

_ What are you talking about? You’re just trying to get out of this. Which is fine, I guess, but,  _ If ghosts could grin, Kenny would be the goddamn cheshire cat.  _ Hey, Tweeky boy, what do you know about mercury? _

“The planet?"

_ Yeah, what do you know about _ it?

"A d-day there lasts about fifty nine of ours! Isn’t th-that nuts?”

_ Eh, it’s pretty whack. What about mars?  _

“It probably had water! At one p-point,  _ maybe _ . There’s d-dried up riverbeds,” Tweek hums. “Cr-cricket told me, he told me they’ve had like, f-forty missions there but only eighteen worked. O-oh! And they have all these dust storms there, they can go across the  _ whole  _ planet! I g-guess,” Tweek rubs his neck in thought. “I guess it might have a ring one day, too. Just like saturn. I d-don’t get  _ why, _ it’s something to do with the moon? Cricket t-told me once, but I still don’t get it.”

_ Cricket? That’s cute. Why call him cricket? _

“I d-don’t know. He  _ sings _ , man,” Tweek sighs, slightly relieved. He shuts his eyes, faint smile on his face. “You should actually hear it. He’s got the best voice.”

_ No shit?  _

“Yeah, he gets all soft sometimes. He sounds, I don’t know, man. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

_ Is it soothing? _

“Fuck yeah. I’d probably sleep through a war if he kept singing.”

_ Wow. You don’t sleep much, do you? _

“I c-can’t, you know, y-you know why.”

_ Maybe you should relax a little.  _

“C-can’t,” Tweek arches, straightening his back. “I w-want to help you so you’re not stuck. D-don’t you want to focus on that?”

_ Nawh, dog. I’m good.  _

“What,” Tweek frowns, scrunching his eyes up. “What is it th-that  _ you’re  _ keeping in  _ your _ head?” 

_ Nothing anybody needs to hear, you of all people. Don’t worry. It’s cool. I got it.  _

“That’s n-not a good way to be. To hide it.” Tweek whispers. 

_ Guess you would know. I’ll be back with y’all living soon enough anyway. You won’t remember any of this. Nobody ever does. _

“Y-you’d be surprised! My m-memory’s solid, steel a-and, and,” Tweek starts, losing steam. “ _ Everything _ .” He mutters. The candle flicks. Tweek recognizes its’ color as a sign to leave. 

_ They need me, Tweeker. I gotta go.  _

“I t-told you not to call me that damn name, McCormick.” 

_ But you’re hilarious when you’re pissed. Like a wet cat.  _

“Oh, f-fuck you.”

_ Nah, Tweek, as much as I love it when you walk, I think it’d ruin what we have. But Craig would be more than willing.  _

“Ken, is it r-really necessary t-to be this pervy all the time?”

_ Yes. Yes, yes, it is, Tweek. I will literally die if I don’t say shit like this.  _

“You’re already dead.”

_ Bingo! You killed me. _

“D-don’t joke like that. D-don’t, don’t make me think that  _ sh-shit _ .”

_ Tweek, really? You aren’t that unstable. You didn’t kill me. I got run over by a bus. How’s Stan dealing with it by the way? Kyle still moping? _

“I th-think Kyle wants to lead a campaign to get rid of buses on school property, actually,” Tweek grins, crookedly before it flashes into a frown. “Stan’s kinda, uh, d-down though.”

  _Yeah, he always is. Softie._

 "I g-guess. I mean, man, y-you did _die_.” 

_ Geez, you’re so brilliant, Tweek! I had no idea I was dead. Thanks a fucking lot.  _

“Welcome.” Tweek mutters. The candle flicks, golden with blue edges. 

_ Later, Sadie _ . 

“I told y-you,” Tweek starts, watching that candle flicker out. He sighs and knows the wax dripping down towards his thumb means Kenny’s gone. “I don’t  _ like _ n-nicknames.” Unless they come on dimpled little smiles, with awkward facts about dung beetles and mechanized mind. Tweek wishes he could see that landscape, that he could see Craig's mind set.


	20. light collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey my dudes! i know i've been saying this every chapter but i literally have no idea how to continue this story. so this is what i've been cooking up but there's really not much else left in this world. comments are super super helpful!!! ily all sm thanks for reading <3
> 
> oh, if you guys want a playlist of what's on the mixtapes craig made, here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6dK-r1KmoU&list=PLElXC8DYJhC7gLgovpFBXyy331rHk0k_9

Shadows don’t run. Shadows dance, brilliant ballets in the absence of light and Tweek thinks they look ugly. Tweek knows they run prison cells, cause crimes and beat beat _beat_ out any sense of remorse. They play along with the movement of a hand and some fingers are nimble, more than capable, clumsy.

Dumb, too. That’s what they deemed. _Dumb._

Tweek used to be a left-handed kid, innocent and clean-mouthed, who once rinsed cotton clothes until his hands bled onto the bleached fabric, until papa shot the devil out of his shaking wrist.

It didn’t hurt. It felt like ice and Tweek liked the winter, he likes it still. To walk in snow with a breaking hand, a shoddy wrist, the air has to freeze. Earth must pause and life is easier when Tweek can visualize his breath _frozen crystals like cigar smoke_ , when he can visually confirm how alive he really is.

It was even comforting for a few minutes, when papa helped Tweek get rid of the devil. Papa was really very sorry he hurt Tweek but possession is ended only by silver knives and Tweek was possessed, wasn't he, to repeat the same thing, to follow the pattern? To rock back and forth like that, to reiterate  _Billy's not a liar, Billy's not a liar?_ To ask where Dragon Man got his shoes, why Dragon Man left the door open, why no one heard him scream, shouldn't he have hidden himself better? 

It was a slick, sleek cut along the top of his wrist, big enough for the devil to escape. It had to be done to stop the shaking but papa was wrong, he was so wrong. 

Until the sidewalk slipped from under him, Tweek swore he heard bats calling his name that day. Tweek. Tweak. Tweek is something you do to a project that’s near-finished, a tweeker is a junkie, a methhead, and he doesn’t _do_ that shit anymore and it’s a stupid, _stupid_ name, isn’t it? Everyone hated it, even if mama’s reasoning made sense when she looked at Tweek so lovingly and tucked him in at night. _So I can always find you, sweet boy, so you never forget where you come from_. Her cheekbone ran wet coats of ivory against his perky nightlight, to cover the lies she believed. _Why did she cry like that?_  Her shadowed side, backed away from any light, lacked grace and blood vessels sprouted dark purple like spidery twigs, like spiders' webs.

She looked like a ghost, she always looked like a ghost, _maybe_ she was a ghost.

Tweek can’t find her now, he won’t find her again.

Gentle jazz, she played mellow slow jazz. Brassy horns blaring the street sounds, trombones waltzed and Tweek moves along to those old sounds now, even though the music’s long-gone and replaced by some old cheesy-ass music that Tweek's sure he doesn't deserve.

The shadows are trailing someone else’s song. Tweek's glad.

* * *

Houses are quiet, still and dark. Craig's room has one window that catches its' light from the train below, when it passes. Twice a night. The surrounding trees block most of the daylight and Craig can't see much of the sky from his window. 

To be denied the presence of a star, of some small pinhole of light in a bleak veil of night, has always shaken Craig to his core. He doesn't like to be shadowed. He likes to be in the  _know_ , and he'd love to explore those rays of light.

Craig would, for once, like to play things safe and by the books. He’d like to know how it feels to lose his urges. He’d like to not follow the scent of citronella everywhere,  _anywhere_ , unquestioning. Citronella steers away bugs, anyhow, why doesn't Craig ever question it? He's a friend of beetles, bees, shit, even _mosquitoes_ he doesn't mind so much. How come he'd follow something that his friends hate? Craig would like to be truly dull, for once, he’d like to be as simple and boring as he used to. And in the end, he'd hopefully die an oddly satisfying, if somewhat uninteresting, life a couple years down the road.

That’d be fine, the death would be a fair trade. It'd be better than obsessing over stars he can’t ever reach.

But life works. That's the point of it; to  _live_  and Craig always thought he was doing that until Tweek came back. Craig used to wake up a new day, fine in the dawn and pretend not to care about the jackshit his mom yelled at him for. He'd even drink tea with Ruby some mornings, even though he hated that stuff almost more than coffee and found it never did anything to wake him up. But it was a ritual, wait at the bus stop together and drink something to stay warm. 

Alcohol would've been a nice way to go, but Craig couldn't ration getting drunk that early. 

Now he can, though. It's way easier, isn't it, when that fermented wheat just talks for him and doesn't really give a shit about anything, including getting hurt?

Craig stands in the door frame of his room, backlit by the afternoon light peeking through those pines. Reeking of desolation, slightly peeved by his father's comments when he arrived home. The shame he felt isn't the same last time he wandered home, still buzzed. It's worse, it was so much worse when his dad said:  _Don't tell your mother you're this wasted again, she'll wring me over_ and he handed over a cup of instant coffee Craig wouldn't touch.  _You're so difficult, Craig. Can't you just do what I tell you to do for once?_ It was the exhaustion in his dad's response that kicked him sore, honestly. Like Craig was a lost cause, like it was too late for anyone to change him. Like he wasn't even worth a shove anymore and it twists up Craig's guts somewhat more than he thinks it should.

In this afternoon white light that never stretches to the dark corners of his room, Craig stands.

Craig stands, just calculating the seconds, the seconds since childhood, since swinging Ruby’s jump rope while she patterned double-dutch, since _Stripe_ moved on, since growing up meant no one tried to play baseball anymore, since Token first told him he didn’t care who Craig liked, they would _always_ be friends. 

Since he punched his best friend, since he told a paranoid hothead who talks to ghosts how stupidly in love with him he is.

Two hundred and eight three days since last summer, where nothing else mattered besides how many legs a centipede has. 

* * *

Tweek pulls out the journal, having just rewound the mixtape to his favorite track. He's going to break that button soon. Why didn't Craig put titles on this damn thing? He doesn't even know who wrote the song, what year it's from and it pisses him off.

Tweek would like it played at his funeral, if he can exist around some living folks long enough to _earn_ a funeral. 

The journal's still full up, duct taped in some areas. Pages are stuck together that haven't been opened since he wrote them. Tweek thinks he should check the night sky, he thinks he should make sure mars is still out there. He should make sure that headstone is still solid granite and  _who could even lift a headstone like that_  

Tweek wishes the leaves outside would crunch instead of pull his feet into the soggy mess of spring. He glances at the sky, wanders his eyes and

It’s okay still.

It's fine, even, because mars can’t be burning. It can’t be burning because mars isn’t candy stained with almond nougat and melted chocolate sickly sweet sick  _sick_   _what happened cheeks running violet bruises what happened cheeks to the_ concentrate  _ungrateful fucker_ and only things that run can burn only things that breathe can burn, right?

It's raining, it's raining, it's raining and that drip, drip waltzes back in Tweek's life in the worst of patterns. The rain never stops the burns, the rain doesn't soothe shit.

Drip.  _Decaf_?

Concentrate. 

 _Drip_. Drip. Drip. Decaf. 

It’s silent. It’s too silent,  _too_  suffocatingly still. The earth feels like it’s on pause. Tweek could even drop a small sewing pin, spot it catch a sliver of the train lights and hear it echo throughout all this dead brown grass outside. It’d be bold, even, it’d be  _disruptive_   _ruining everything don’t puke don’t puke don’t release all that sugar it won’t float up to the sky it won’t set out a distress signal all it does is make you dirty soiled_ answered.

_the pinched copper belts aren’t coming no one is saving because no one is here you were never here right you were fine weren’t you nothing happened no one cut below no one_

No one’s answering, no one's knocking and no one's stolen mars away. Tweek retreats to the church and opens the journal again. The handwriting looks crippled in some places and he recognizes his mother's form. She crossed over to the place Tweek won't reach. The words happened before she became an angel. She took control of Tweek's shaking wrist for him, made his mad cursive look beautiful and wrote her goodbyes, her comforting stories.

It was years ago and Tweek still holds onto that slip of paper, with it's poorly placed coffee rings and runaway marker. 

_My, my, little boy, you’re alight and you’ll be just fine. You can even pretend you’re alone, just don’t go deaf. No one likes deaf boys, deaf boys don't listen._

 where ~~is home~~

  _No one can find you. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re so safe and you’re brave._

 ~~what happens when~~ this ~~wick expires~~

_Mars will fight with jackpots over October nights, baby boy, and matches will be struck by gasoline, by small and nimble fingers that rob time. They go up nice and sweet, too, end in misery. Like Bonnie and Clyde._

~~that doesn’t sound nice that~~ doesn’t ~~sound sweet~~

_Tweek, you fogged up the night sky once. Could you do it again? Once, you told Craig that if you could just make the flames slightly taller, heaven would be reachable. How big did it make you feel, to help mama? You’ve always been my sweet boy._

~~why doesn’t anyone~~ see ~~that mars has escaped~~  how  ~~mars _always escapes runs inhumane inhuman lives slithers against tong---_ unscathed~~

_You’re special. You could’ve slaughtered all those monsters if the flames were high enough, burn out all those aliens and their cigar lips, their neon touch, their cocaine henchmen all those aliens, all those monsters that hurt mama, isn’t that right, baby boy? They never hid. Not like you. You’re so good at hiding._

~~why weren’t they worried about us when~~ we hid

_You could’ve killed, but you only ran. You were so small._

~~who will remember who else can tell~~ the truth

_Who’s truth is it, Tweek?_

Tweek frowns at the paper, having forgotten what he wrote all those years ago. What had he even asked that was remotely useful? He should've asked where she kept the matches, where she put that denim jacket she wore on some good days. Maybe Tweek wouldn't have to have stolen his oversized parka from that trucker. He should've asked how she felt before she died, if she even missed Tweek anymore.

Tweek should've asked how to prove he wasn't insane. He should've asked how you can thank someone for something that's out of their control. Tweek should have asked if papa was glad with what he did, if he was satisfied with splitting Tweek's wrist open after the shaking didn't stop, after they dug. 

Memories compress his tongue. His mouth feels like cement. This, the thought is something cliche and so utterly human that Tweek’s not sure he should touch any of it. He doesn’t even know if he could _stand_ being touched. He’s always hated that feeling, the creeping hand. 

Shadows never run. They dance, loud ballets and act as though there's nowhere else they have to be.

Tweek hates how ugly they stare, how much of his skin they trace and _if_ Tweek was capable of staying motionless

_he's not he's always moving never good at being calm and still and calmed he can't be calmed_

If Tweek was capable of staying motionless, he’d swallow air whole and feel it stretch in his mandible. Tweek would wait, holding his breath until he fainted, brain quiet and no longer prone to hearing the voices of dead people.  

There's a knock on the door. Tweek sets his journal down and flicks his eyes to the candle, murmurs dizzying up his head. He frowns at it, picking it up and peers out the window. 

If Tweek was capable of staying motionless, he probably wouldn't shift his gaze from the person waiting outside. Sober, sorry-looking Craig, pulling on his chullo and wearing an old baseball shirt under his blue sweatshirt. There's a patch Tweek's noticing now, as he creeps on his friend. The patch is starry. Tweek squints to read what it says:

_I enjoy constellations. I'm Sirius._

“Hush,” Tweek mumbles to the candle and leaves the window. He pulls the door to the church open and feels the thin trailing smoke of his candle lick his face. He won’t look up at the entry yet, he won’t look up to see Craig standing there. His sneakers are double knotted, so fucking neatly, Tweek notices, and they're too clean. Isn't it muddy out there? How does he keep everything so clean? “Be q-quiet,” Tweek says, once more to the candle and it waves violently. Tweek sighs, musters up the courage to take a quick glance at Craig. Sober, sober. He’s standing aloof, sheepish, grungy in the doorframe. Tweek could run, he still could bolt. But that look that Craig’s wearing, _that’s_ the look that haunts Tweek more than any of the ghosts he’s met. It’s in those sleepwalking eyes, reflecting _dead as can be,_ that Tweek understands just how utterly alone Craig must feel. “You l-look like death, man.” Tweek breathes. Craig offers him a wry smile. 

“Yeah? Guess you would know.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?” 

“I’m,” Craig grimaces, voice unusually uneven. His eyebrows are pinched and Tweek notices his green eyes aren’t so sun-speckled right now. Tweek hates it. He hates how fucking _depressed_ his only living friend is. His only friend not of convenience, that just seems to _like_ Tweek ---- no, no, wait, even _love_ Tweek --- just because he’s him. That never happens, nobody actually likes Tweek for who he is. Some tolerate him because of what he can do, but Craig doesn't really know everything Tweek can do and he still loves him. Craig must be fucked up, this _whole thing_ is way too fucked up. “I need to sleep.” Craig says with a hopeless shrug. Tweek's wrist is stinging, his hand jitters. He slaps his other hand over to calm it, the candle slips away in the process and Tweek lets out a small yelp. The flame goes out. Craig doesn’t laugh at him for this. He just bends down and picks up the candle. He hands it to Tweek.  

“I,” Tweek takes the candle slowly. Craig drops his hand fast and faces the altar. He stares at the cross. The door creaks shut, alarming neither of them. Tweek follows Craig's gaze on the simple wooden cross, this t-shaped burden and gosh, he thinks about falling. “I d-don’t sleep much b-but, but there’s a,” Tweek looks around until he spots his bag. He heads over to it. Craig doesn’t turn to him as he shuffles through his stuff. Things clink together, bottles and jars, and he unravels an old army surplus blanket. He grabs his parka and shuffles through the pews, setting them down. “Here. I m-mean, man, if you want.” Tweek can do this, Tweek can stay up for tonight. It's just one night, he never sleeps anyway.

Tweek can keep everything away from Craig, he can keep him safe, even if it’s just for tonight.  

Craig shifts his eyes at Tweek’s suggestion but doesn’t say anything about it. He flicks them back to the cross and sits down in the aisle. Tweek watches him carefully.

“Jesus would be sorry.” _You shouldn’t be._

“It’s f-fine.” Tweek mumbles, lying because no, it's not fine. It's weird, it's fucked up ---- why _Tweek_ , why would anyone with a voice like that, with a brain like that, with  _dimples_ like those, actually love Tweek? Tweek can't figure it out and when he pokes at his face in a mirror, he wonders what there is to get so giddy and awkward over. He guesses he won't ever see himself the way Craig does, distorted into something Tweek assumes is interesting when all Tweek's been doing is breathing.

“How? How is what I did fine, Tweek?” _No, it's not fine; it's weird and fucked up but damn_ , _if it isn't_ wonderful. Craig gives Tweek a solid glance for the first time this evening. Right now, here in his mandible, Tweek swallows air whole. It’s a neat trick, Tweek’s impressed himself even, and with a howling cough, Tweek is noisily aware of how messy life is.

Dead people seem to have less to worry about. They don't have to worry about where hands are supposed to go _not there_ and they don't have to worry about how close their faces can get before something's expected and they don't have to worry about how much they're supposed to offer up, how vulnerable they can be before their limbs twist and they're locked, chained fucking addicted imprisoned and Tweek's not a caged birdie anymore, Tweek's not, Tweek's free he's gotta be free he's free 

“I, _ngh_ , Jesus,” Tweek pulls on his shirt collar, tugging it until he hears a tear and feels air on his collar bone. “J-jesus, m-man, I don’t know. I don't even know wh-what you're sorry for. You d-didn't do anything, r-right?” Craig nods, face closing off and he pulls his knees up to his chin. Resting it there, mouthing numbers ever so slightly. Tweek wonders what it would be like to hold Craig’s head up for him in his hands, to cradle Craig's skull in his hands, to feel the weight of his intense mind. Craig looks so burdened by it. Tweek wonders what it would be like to place his headphones over Craig’s dampened mood, to watch his face _so_ _very_ _close_ while he pressed play on Kreisler’s _Liebesleid_ , to tell Craig he’s just as beautiful, just as bittersweet as that violin. Tweek wonders if Craig would believe him, wonders what Craig would do if he listened to his own impulses.

“I know you don’t want me here,” Craig says, slowly, ever so calm. “I’ll go soon. I don't even know what I'm doing here,” Tweek rolls his eyes, pulling on his hair with a curled pinky. Craig hums. Tweek shoulders release some tension under the sound. “It’s my fault. I downed too much whiskey.” Craig makes a face. Tweek blinks at him.

“You’ve survived a lot, man.” Tweek says, contemplative. Craig gives him an indecisive look before settling towards neutral.

“Nah, I haven’t done shit,” Craig says to himself. He eyes Tweek, guard running up again. “ _Aphids_ survive a lot. The females are born pregnant.” Their situation feels too tense to laugh, but Tweek still offers a small release of air.

“Craig,” Tweek begins, waiting for Craig to turn his gaze towards him again and jesus, couldn’t the guy just _look at him, dream in technicolor fucking look at him_ “Craig,” Tweek says, and a little more impatience seeps through. Craig still doesn’t look over to him. “Craig, f-fuck, look at me, okay?” Craig looks at Tweek, shifts his eyes smoothly and moves them back to the cross.

“Just did,” Tweek rolls his eyes. “How come you're not kicking me out?”

“Well,” Tweek looks around, looks to Craig’s scuffed up coat, looks at his neatly tied sneakers and sighs. “We’re friends, a-aren’t we? Besides, man, I,” Tweek sighs. “I got it covered tonight. It’s not so bad. They come in cycles.”

“I’m not weak,” Craig blurts. He reaches in his coat pocket, pulls out a small glass bottle of mysterious amber liquid, with a rag stuffed in it and an old zippo lighter. “See?” Craig says as he flicks the flame once. Tweek blows it out immediately.

“D-don’t do shit like that.”

“The fuck?” Craig flips the zippo shut. Tweek will never understand how Craig, with that sailor's mouth he's got, can still be so fucking innocent. 

“Don’t draw attention to y-yourself, man! _You’re_ so fucking naive!”

“I’m naive?”

“Yeah, m-man,” Tweek pulls at his hair. “I mean, dude! You can’t just, j-just _do_ that. You want th-them to find us?”

“Who will find us?"

" _Ngh_ , fuck off, dude! J-just, do you trust me?" Tweek asks, somewhat pained. Craig furrows his eyebrows. 

"I guess."

"Okay, so, s-so just _believe_ me."

"Can't you just tell me what the hell's going on?"

"No. You're not r-ready, okay?"

"So,” Craig frowns. “So, what do I need to do? I have to prove myself by beating the shit out of you or something?”

“What?” Tweek blinks.

“Because I _won’t_ do that,” Craig confirms, slowly. Tweek looks at him, even more confused. Craig rolls his eyes. “Bebe told me that Clyde was here a while back. I guess that he’s stronger than I am so he’s allowed to help you here, right? He's allowed to stay here? I’m _not_ , even though you don’t own the,” Craig scoffs humorlessly. “The goddamn church,” Craig frowns. “If we’re _friends_ , I don’t get why it has to be so difficult. I just want to understand.”

“O-oh, fuck that, Craig,” Tweek hisses, pulling his head down between his knees. He rocks a little, sniffing in the air. He can almost smell campfires rising in the cool night air. “You c-can’t understand. I remember _everything_.” He says, voice muffled. “You don't, o-okay?”

“So,” Craig hums. “ _Talk_ to me about it. Help me out here," Craig sighs and frowns. "We don't have to feel so alone," He adds, somewhat hesitantly. “Look,” Craig points at his bottle and flame. “I said I would help. I wasn’t lying to you. I still believe you. Is that what’s bothering you? The, um,” Craig rubs at his neck. “The aliens?” Tweek stiffens.

“I th-thought you said you didn’t remember that weekend.”

“I thought _you_ didn’t.” Craig says, with narrowed eyes. Tweek frowns at him, stares back in kind of a standoff and neither of them plan to lose. Tweek eyes the candle quick and it lights up, flaring fast. He raises his hand above it and Craig watches on, curiosity knotted in his brow.

If Tweek’s pulse tacks itself onto the flame and he lets his wrist spill open, will Craig see how rotten he really is? Will Craig still care this much, _so fucking much too fucking much_ , when he sees what Tweek’s missing? Would Craig actually care anymore? Isn’t crazy kind of a turnoff? Wouldn’t he judge if he knew why Tweek hides his blankets to this day? That he’s still afraid someone will take them away again, like they did in the ward after that sorry-ass makeshift polyester noose he made didn’t do shit, after he tried to shut all this nonsense up and they still found him _fucking breathing of all things of all the righteous things_ because dumb, dumb Tweek dumb incompetent Tweek couldn’t tie a simple knot tight enough and

Yeah, _talk_ about fucked up, how about that Tweek had to learn, firsthand, blankets were privileges?

He stole away, that year, on a train bound for anywhere else and his feet were bloodied raw from running but it never felt more right. Freight trains don’t hold the same value now. They’re lonely, lonely places to be. They carry scarred babes, crying for booze and the heartaches they've seen. Their steel is indestructible, an irreversible cold.

Tweek thought, maybe, maybe _humans_ were indestructible once, before they met each other. When they evolved into cells or were created by some absent God. Before Adam and Eve met each other, they were nearly indestructible beasts, weren’t they?

The answer is something that sinks. The train wouldn't be so lonely if Craig was there. It’s a lie-down in a forest, in the dirt, in the grave. It’s lawlessness of the law, the physics of a goddamn bumblebee. It’s being thirsty while drowning, while growling deep in the back part of a skull that solves everyone else’s problems, holds back no internal judgement and Tweek’s skin feels ugly.

Craig’s not as uncomfortable as he should be.

Craig watches the flame, watches Tweek’s skin get too close to the fire. He worries it’ll bubble off and burn, burn in a more tangible way than his pine tree in the backyard when they were young in that October. He catches Tweek’s hand and despite the moths that wake up in his lungs, Craig pulls it away from the fire. The hand is still dead cold, even after his wrist was over that flame for so long. Craig lets go fast, dropping Tweek’s hand by his shoes and scratches his neck. He releases his breath when Tweek doesn’t look mad, like Craig assumed he would.

“Don’t try to be a moth. It won't work. Humans can’t even fly.”

“What?” Tweek blinks, dazed.

“They fly to flames. Haven't you heard the saying?” Craig mumbles.

“Oh. Right. You tr-tried, I guess? To fly, I mean,” Craig gives an unimpressed look. Tweek flinches. “J-just,” Tweek mumbles. “Just sleep h-here tonight and don’t be a baby about it,” Tweek says, playing with his laces. “Fucking nymph.”

“What’s the candle even do?” Craig asks, instead.

“You ask _so_ many questions.”

“Well, fuck me, you’re an interesting guy.” Craig says dryly. Tweek laughs softly.

“D-dude, I d-don’t think we’re ready for that yet.” Craig reddens and ducks his head.

“Ah, good. _Good_ ,” Craig extends the frays on his jacket. “Good, we can joke about it now.”

“Y-you think, you really think I’m funny? No one thinks I’m funny.” 

“I think you’ve been hanging out with Token too much.” Tweek rolls his eyes, mouth zig-zagging in apprehension.

"Oh," The wind won't holler at them tonight and Tweek misses it, somewhat. He stands, retrieves his parka, tossing the blanket to Craig. Craig looks surprised by the offer. Tweek rolls his eyes. "Sleep, okay? Y-you look like, like shit, man."

"I thought it was too dangerous for me." Tweek settles his eyes on the bottle Craig brought and points to it. 

"Well, we h-have that, don't we?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So, s-so sleep, dude. Don't worry," Tweek mutters. "I won't let them g-get _you_." Tweek gets up again, digs back through his bag until he pulls out the clunky old headphones and the walkman. With a shaking hand, he switches out the mixtape and puts in one of his old classical recordings. Dad liked NPR. Tweek walks over, plunks himself down in front of Craig, criss-cross and scoots until his legs are touching Craig's sneakers. 

He plays with the headphones before reaching and putting them over Craig’s ears. Craig raises an eyebrow at him and Tweek smiles faintly. Craig looks away again. “What are you playing?” Tweek holds up a finger, signaling Craig to wait. Craig holds up a finger too, his  _middle_ one, impulsively and snaps it down when he realizes he’s flipped Tweek off. But it's just  _Tweek_ , Craig shouldn't feel so weird about it. Tweek catches the action and has this odd little glint in his eye.

He almost looks happy.

“Hush and listen, y-yeah?” He mutters and Craig can barely hear him through the headphones. He decides, maybe for once, he’ll shut up and do what someone tells him. "Close your eyes," Tweek whispers. "Lie down, t-too." 

"What?" Craig asks, lifting one of the headphones up. Tweek rolls his eyes and huffs, settling next to Craig and pushing him to lay flat with the shaking wrist. Craig gives a mildly surprised look and Tweek keeps his hand flat as he can on Craig's chest. He can feel the heart pumping blood fast. He moves his hand around Craig's sternum, pushing fabric with furrowed eyebrows and frowns at Craig. "What are you doing?" Craig chokes out. 

"Hold on," Tweek says, moving his fingers up around Craig’s neck like he’s digging for something. Softly, dead-cold and Craig thinks if he died like this, his life would've been a good one. "Shit, dude," Tweek puts his head down and listens to what lies under Craig’s sternum instead, seeming to have given up on the buried pulse. Tweek can feel the pilly cotton, fuzzy against his cheek. Craig’s surprisingly cold. Tweek listens to that steady, continuous pounding that barely breaks.  _Thump, thump, thump, thumpthumpthump._ “Damn,” Tweek whispers and the pulse increases. “Y-you should g-get that checked out. I know a guy.”

“Yeah, you know a guy?” Craig’s voice travels, burrowing deep into the pocket of Tweek’s ear. Tweek wishes he could keep it there, for later. It’s a sweet thing.

“Dude, d-don’t say it like _that,_  man. I know people. He’s not even d-dead, too. I know you like that.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“W-well, Gregory’s not a doctor b-but okay,” Tweek shifts slightly, still resting and listening. He closes his eyes. The breeze is seeping in slightly, through the poorly insulated church and Tweek finds that this is the best way to hear Craig. He can almost believe that this is enough to keep _them_ at bay. “Why?” Craig sighs, makes a sound with his mouth but no word forms. "Why's it s-so fast?" Tweek asks, biting his lip.

“Don’t you look in the mirror ever?”

“Th-that’s not an answer.”

“Okay, Tweek.” Craig says, giving up.

“No, no,” Tweek says, tensing. He looks up at Craig, but Craig’s averting his eyes. “Craig,” Tweek snaps. Tweek sits up, keeping his hand on Craig's chest as it jitters slightly. “D-dude, you need to uh, b-be honest with me. J-just say the truth.”

“What?”

“Christ, you’re n-not a caveman! Use y-your goddamn dictionary!”

“What are you yelling at me for?”

“ _Eugh_ ,” Tweek groans, frustratedly. “I know th-that you uh, th-the, um,” Tweek swallows. “I know that you love me.” He whispers, beyond impressed with how he didn’t stutter. Craig is straining to hear him. Tweek leans up, pulls the headphones off his friend hastily.

“Uh, what did you say?” Craig looks sheepish.

“Jesus, cricket! I know that you’re, y-you know, that all th-the no homos were l-lies, okay?!”

"So if you know, why'd you ask?"  _Thumpthumpthumpthump_ "You don't need to be an ass. I said I would go," Craig starts to get up but Tweek pushes him down. "Christ, Tweek, you make everything impossible." Craig groans.

"Lie down, you're going to," Tweek eyes his walkman and nearly presses the button. "You're going to sleep, o-okay? You l-look exhausted."

"You confuse the hell out of me."

"Well, ditto here, dude." Tweek mumbles.

"So," Craig starts, uncharacteristically fumbling. "You don't mind?"

"N-no," Tweek says, biting his lip. "I don't u-understand b-but, but I don't _mind_." Tweek says, rubbing at his neck.

"That makes two of us, I guess." Craig says, humming. "Why can't you sleep?" Craig asks, red-faced. 

"Just, listen to this, will you?" Tweek shakes the walkman in front of Craig and all Craig can do is nod. Craig rubs at his face. Tweek looks contemplative and Craig closes his eyes, too drained to do anything else. He feels Tweek lean over, pull the headphones back over his head, so close and fuck that citronella scent. It's too overpowering.

"You’re a fucking enigma, Tweek," Craig says, eyes closed and a somewhat fond expression on his slumber-ready face. "I don’t get you.”

“But you still love me?”

“So stupidly,” Craig mutters, cheeks growing red but he ignores the sensation for once. Now that it's all out in the open, there's no point in backtracking anymore. "I should of told you when I wasn't shitfaced."

“You,” Tweek starts, quietly. _You are living you are awake you wake me up, you don't need to sleepwalk you're so fucking safe and special and_ “Y-you are a pain in the ass, man.”

"So I've been told," Craig remarks. The minutes pass surprisingly mellow and Craig finds himself staring at the church ceiling, noticing the blonde mess out of the corner of his eye. He sighs. "It's hard to sleep with you staring at me."

"I wasn't!" Tweek shrieks lightly. Craig huffs a laugh and even though it comes out stale, Tweek is comforted by it. 

"Yeah," Craig shifts his eyes and peeks at Tweek, staring right back at him. Tweek flushes, looks away. "Sure."

"H-how can you do that? Are you psychic or a m-mindreader or something?"

"Yes."

"O-oh, shit, _r-really_?" Tweek shrieks, surprised and slightly impressed. Craig laughs and the sound dulls the brightness of Tweek's candle. 

"No, not really. You're just," Craig sighs. "Your reaction's precious."

"O-oh, uh," Tweek fumbles, coughing evenly and Craig raises an eyebrow. "W-well, th-that's nice." 

"Nice?" Craig scoffs. Tweek shrugs.

"Wh-what should I say?" Tweek whispers.

"I don't know." Craig says, settling on the floor and pulling the blanket over himself. Tweek watches him with a complex expression.

“C-could,” Tweek begins, sitting up and pulling on the cassette player. Craig looks on slightly apprehensive. Tweek frowns. “I, um, c-could you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, sure.” Tweek narrows his eyes at Craig’s loyalty or stupidity. Tweek’s not sure which it is, but he’s leaning towards the latter.

“You d-don’t know what it is. I m-mean, I could’ve asked you to like, chop off someone’s head! Y-you shouldn’t just agree, th-that’s _dumb_.”

“Hey,” Craig waves his hand nonchalantly. “If I go to prison, I go to prison. Besides, why _would_ you of all people want someone killed? They’d eventually figure out your scheme and haunt the shit out of _you._ What’s up?”

“Um, could you, well,” Tweek feels uncomfortable asking this question but he reasons it’s not quite as strange as asking Craig to kill someone and he seemed fairly undisturbed by _that_. “Could I record you talking?” Craig’s eyes blink open, _twice_ andfast, while he pulls on his hat. It’s a nervous gesture, Tweek recognizes it, before Craig calms himself and settles with a straight face.

“Why?” Craig asks.

“Because, I,” Tweek starts, looking around helplessly. “I need something to calm me when I, wh-when I go _alone_ and, a-and I _th-thought_ ,” Tweek taps his hand fast on his own knee, by the tape recorder. “Well, if you didn’t _mind._  Th-they, uh, they don't get to me,” Tweek whispers, eyes following the player. “They don't get to me as b-bad i-if wh-what I’m hearing is, um, someone t-talking to me. You know, someone living talking? F-for when I t-try to meditate and sleep and walk alone and wh-when I can’t b-breathe and _shit_ , dude, y-your voice is _really_ fucking soothing, d-don’t make me say, _ngh_ , don’t m-make me _explain_ it.” Tweek rushes out, embarrassed and feeling wind use his stomach for a punching bag. The walls of his insides are thrashing, _that’s so fucking new_ , ice blowing off of pine trees swaying like twigs in airy gusts. Craig looks surprised.

“Okay.” Craig agrees and Tweek wasn’t totally expecting that. Sarcasm, yeah, teasing, too. Tweek wasn’t expecting that soft and easy agreement. Craig’s not even questioning it. Tweek fumbles in his eyes, running from place to place but Craig just keeps his stare still in that calm way of his. Tweek breathes.

“O-okay?! _Okay_ ?” Tweek repeats, much louder than he intended. Craig has an amused expression on his face, even though it’s almost shy.  _Almost_.

“Yeah, I said okay,” Craig sighs. “Don’t know why you want _my_ voice.” Craig deadpans.

“Wh-why wouldn’t I? Your voice is,” Tweek purses his lips, searching for an answer. “It’s like _sandpaper_.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant.” 

“No, no, like wet sandpaper. H-haven’t you heard that?”

“No, Tweek. I haven’t heard wet sandpaper before.” Craig says, quirking an eyebrow and Tweek chews on his lip.

“Well, y-you, uh, you should! It’s mellow. It’s _r-really easy_ ,” Tweek mumbles. “You h-have a pretty voice. You always know where you’re going. It never jumps. It’s a compliment! I’m being serious, I, um, I d-don’t,” Tweek inhales sharply, like his throat is ready to slice up any sentence his brain dares to send down. “ _Sweet jesus,_ just t-take it if you, uh, want.”

“Um, thanks,” Craig murmurs, not able to keep his grin to himself. Tweek smiles back. “What do you want me to say?”

“Huh?”

“On the _tape_ ,” Craig points out, skeptically. “What do you want me to say?”

“I, uh, wh-whatever you want!” Craig nods and hums. Tweek breathes a sigh of relief, keeping his stare on Craig.

“What is it now?” Craig asks, noticing Tweek’s eyes.

“Sh-shit, I was d-doing it again,” Tweek rubs at his neck anxiously. He looks away. “I-it’s just, j-just that, if you didn’t l-look so _weird_.” Tweek deflects pathetically.

“Oh, fuck off," Craig says, sticking his middle finger back up. "And _your_ face is something to gawk at?” Craig retorts, even though, yeah, Craig knows the answer to that. He's seen andromeda, betelgeuse and hell, sometimes venus. Craig’s mapped out a lot with just Tweek's freckles. Orion creases first when Tweek grins and that's his favorite part, that'll always be his favorite part.

But that’s not necessarily _gawking_ , is it? Tweek knows now, too, so what's the point anymore?

“ _Shh_ , I’ve uh, h-had takers.” Tweek teases.

“Sure, I’ll bet,” Craig begins, monotoned to distract himself of the thought of takers and who took Tweek? How many? Tweek blinks at Craig, beautiful like a barn owl and Craig feels he could activate his filter but doesn’t really care enough to do so. “No lifelong mate yet, though, right?” Tweek laughs, seeming to mellow out.

“Wh-what the fuck, dude? Is th-this how you t-talk to everyone about their love life?”

“I don’t generally _talk_ about this shit, Tweek.” Craig groans, uncomfortably. Tweek laughs, letting it roll on as he watches Craig’s face grow redder.

“S-sorry,” He stutters out. “Why _d-do_ you care so much?” Tweek eggs on, staring intently. Craig averts his eyes.

“Don't be an ass, come on, Tweek.” Craig states, hunching his shoulders. Tweek frowns, looks like he’s dissecting Craig with his eyes, trying to find the lie. Craig must be hiding something, people just don't react this way, do they? The stare continues for some time until Tweek pulls out a book, realizing the conversation's going nowhere. Craig watches him read in a comfortable silence, from lying on the floor. Tweek’s concentrating, letting his mouth graze over words faintly and his eyes move so fast. Craig almost wishes he brought his insect guide but he’s read that thing over and over again, he’s sure he knows the words by heart. He could probably point to the page aphids are on, eyes shut. Craig gazes on while his friend reads with little dignity left. “What’s that about?” Craig asks, pointing the book stretched flat in Tweek’s hands. Tweek looks taken aback.

“Cars.”

“I thought you hated cars.”

“I d-do, man! I don’t get how you can love th-them.”  _Don't get how you can love me_

“They’re rad.”

“Cricket,” Tweek scoffs. “F-find me some study where they’re n-not little death traps and I’ll b-buy that.”

“I didn’t know you were afraid of death.”  

“I d-don't wanna be a, uh, like, _brain_ dead, though. Just seems an unnecessary risk. A waste of time.”

"Tweek," Craig begins, shifting. "Have you driven a car before?"

" _No_."

"It's not so awful."

"If you s-say so." Tweek skeptically states.

“I’ll show you sometime. It’s fun.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“So you’ll never ride in a car?”

“Would you q-quit with the interrogation, p-please?”

“Sorry.”

“G-good," Tweek says, semi-satisfied as he turns the page. "You should be.”

“You little shit.”

“Wh-what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” Tweek says, quietly, smirk on his face and Craig continues staring absently, letting his mind wander. “I, u-uh, I think we could fly again,” Tweek suddenly states. “I wanna see mars.” Tweek elaborates.

“What, like when we were kids? I’m pretty sure you’re as broke as me. Cardboard wings don’t work.” Craig says, picking at his coat pocket.

“Let’s d-dump that shit, okay? Come fly with m-me. I, uh, I h-have something to give you.” Tweek adds, hesitantly.

“What, you got some good stuff?” Craig asks, eyebrow raised. Tweek frowns.

“ _No,_ seedy. I don’t do drugs.”

“Anymore.” Craig adds, pointedly, like he even needed to _make_ that a comment. Tweek glares at him.

“ _Anymore_ , jackass,” Tweek growls a bit. “B-but, tomorrow night, okay? After eight. I,” Tweek looks around hopelessly. “I can meet you h-here at eight. After eight.”

“Our final’s on Wednesday, buddy. This is the last week. Shouldn't you study?”

“ _I_ don’t n-need to study.”

“Brag much?”

“I’ll h-help _you_ study if you come see me?”

“Why are you so intent on this?” Craig asks, narrowing his eyes at Tweek. Tweek flusters and Craig’s got a number of cocoons opening his ribs up. Damn. He thought just maybe, maybe he could get through a single conversation without waking anyone up in there. Maybe, just _once_ , he could look at Tweek without being so aware of how loud his heart can swarm.

“Shit, d-dude, just trust me.” Tweek says. His greyed out pale eyes so clear and almost too much to take in. Craig sighs, figuring he gave up a long time ago and will, at this point, nearly do anything Tweek asks.

“I _do_ trust you. I thought we established that.”

“O-okay, good,” Tweek grumbles, stretching back and closing the book. “S-so I’ll see you at eight.”

“After eight.” Craig corrects.

“Y-yeah, after,” Tweek confirms, looking preoccupied. “I, I have something f-for you, uh, yeah. You should sleep.”

"I can't sleep when you're," Craig sighs. "When you're staring at me."

"W-well, I'll try not to," Tweek says, odd little glint back in his eye. He pulls on the tape recorder. He presses play and pats Craig on the shoulder. "Sl-sleep, okay? I won't let them get you." Tweek mutters but Craig can't hear anything through the classical music, through soft violins captured in these oversized, noise-cancelling headphones.

"If you find them, I'll kill them." Craig cements, once more in his even tone _rasping for dreams, eyes shut._ Tweek's unsure if it could always be like this. He doesn't know how long Craig can stay still, how long he can stay this vibrant and alive if he's by Tweek's side. But Tweek's tried to warn him and Craig doesn't really care about his life, it seems.

Is Tweek selfish for doing this? Probably. Tweek begins to write, pulling out a piece of scrap paper from his journal.

_dear craig,_

_Dear?_  No, that’s bad. What is Tweek anyway, Craig’s _grandmother?_ He crosses it off fast, violently and steals a glance at Craig, who seems undisturbed. Tweek's thankful that Craig listens to music to sleep.

_craig,_

No, there’s nothing human there.

_assface,_

That looks too mean in black ink.

 _tucker,_  

_you know the moon has_

Of course Craig knows what the moon has. Craig’s turn on is probably NASA articles read out loud in a deliberate NPR voice. Tweek doesn’t have one of those trustworthy, broadcasting voices.  

_nymph, there’s a place off of the coast of mass. i thought about you when i passed it. a homeless girl ran the corner and she gave me tarot cards once. i still have the deck. i can give you a reading, she showed me how. i think her name was nice but i can’t remember it. she sang this song with a ukulele. she was really good, cricket, i think you would of loved it. there were spaceships in it. i hope she didn’t o.d._

_i got a teabag a couple days ago. the tag said_ people who love are happy _. are you happy?_

Tweek frowns at this note. He’s running out of space with all the scrapping he’s done. He has to finish this letter quick.

_i want to be happy so i’m leaving our shithole town and just run off with me, okay?_

Tweek signs his name on it, looking at the old paper in some mild disgust before he shrugs and folds it as best as he can. It's folded like a triangle, it's ink on paper and it's all Tweek's heart can offer.


	21. here, we buried god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew this chapter took a lot outta me guys dunno why. but i finally have the ending! i followed some lovely advice from impalamano (who's got some really funny fics, you should check 'em out if you haven't!) who told me to write the ending and work backwards. so i'm doing that guys!! there should be like one, maybe two chapters left. 
> 
> anyhow, thanks so very much for reading and i'm sorry if there's spelling errors or like story gaps in this chapter? please totally let me know in the comments if there's something wonky going! or if you hate/like where it's going. i really really appreciate comments so much and i won't be offended if you hate. i'd rather you be honest! <3 
> 
> now, i have a lot of hw to finish actually. XD

Tweek knows four new things this morning:

1\. If he presses his hands behind his neck, crosses them and leans back, the chair he’s in won’t fall over.

2\. Craig will also stare at him.

3\. If Tweek makes eye contact, poppies will bloom all over Craig’s face and he’ll pretend he’s been looking at his lunch.

4\. Millipedes can have up to two hundred pairs of legs, too.

Tweek keeps the triangle folded note in the pocket of his cargo pants. He waits all of Tuesday. He thinks he'd like to hear that sinking and _unbelievingly_ grounding the strength of Craig’s pulse again. It can still be defeated, so fast, that's what Tweek knows. It's buried deep, too, you really have to dig to tell it's ticking on but when you get close, it could hammer on for years.

Damn, it's incredible what the living can do.

Lunch with Craig in the library is easy, breezy. No one talks about fifths of vodka, no one calls out dead blinds, no one blinks unsteadily or raises their voice. The mornings grow warmer now and Tweek's finding it okay to live in the heat. It’s peaches, it’s Cold War stories. It's Tweek complaining about the domestic policies of the Reagan era, it's Craig gushing about Science Friday. Tweek's readily awaiting Friday. Craig gives Tweek most of his carrot sticks and shares his peanut butter, too. Tweek offers his green smoothie, loud with kale and celery. Craig makes a face at it and Tweek laughs.

“It’ll g-get stuck like that,” Tweek sing-songs, mirroring the face Craig’s making at him. Craig softens to narrowed eyes. Tweek smiles slightly. “Th-that’s what my mom used to tell me,” Tweek says. “I d-don’t think it’s true.” He whispers.

“I don’t know, Tweek. You’ve seen Stan. Constant derp face.”

“D-don’t you think he was b-born with that expression?”

“Nah, after puberty hit. You weren’t around to see it,” Craig mentions. He frowns. “He definitely traded personality for hormones.”

“He’s not th-that bad. He’s just a whiner.”

“Why are we talking about this? I don’t want to talk about that asshole.”

“ _You_  brought him up.” Tweek says, somewhat indignantly. 

“I guess I shouldn’t have,” Craig says, with a shrug. He points at the green smoothie. “That’s _awful_ , man.”

“No, it’s n-not.” 

“It most certainly is. Where’d you even get that?”

“I m-made it, you dickhead.”

“Well, Tweek,” Craig begins, sticking his tongue out slightly in distaste. “You can’t be amazing at _everything_. There's gotta be a line somewhere. That's the line.”

“Eye of the b-beholder, man.” Tweek says, taking another drinking and making a pleased, relaxed face. Craig looks on, amused.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Oh yeah, bug boy? Bet,” Tweek coughs a little, gesturing to himself. “B-bet you still w-want some of this, though.” Craig stares, red creeping over his face and pulls on his hat, feigning a blank expression as he leans on the table.

“Dude,” Craig says after a slightly awkward two minutes. Tweek continues to take small sips of his smoothie, kind of obliviously. Craig continues to get redder, unmoving. The fluorescent bulb buzzes above them. Like a cicada, like a housefly. Tweek wonders if that light sings in the key of F, too. “Um, what?” Craig’s voice rings again and Tweek can’t give two shits about what key those awful fluorescent bulbs hum in. Always flickering, always fucking with his vision. Tweek pulls out his tape player. He slides it across the table to Craig.  

“I c-couldn’t find a, uh,” Tweek rubs at his neck. “I couldn’t find the thing t-to record voices. D-do you know where I can get one?”

“A mic? For what?” Craig asks, scratching at his head from under his hat. Tweek gives him this irritated look. Craig catches on. “Fuck, you were serious?”

“I w-wouldn't joke about that.”

“You barely _joke_.”

“So you should have known.” Tweek points out.

“I guess.” Craig utters. Tweek taps on the table. “I guess I can record something later. I don’t need that.” Tweek nods, grinning and Craig flicks an inscrutable look towards him. Like he’s trying to figure something out but Tweek’s alright. Tweek’s near dandy and what’s more is that Craig’s foot knocks into his a couple times a minute. That’s a nice feeling. Tweek looks over Craig’s dark eyelashes, thinks about counting them. Is that something people are supposed to do? What a weird situation they’re in. Tweek’s feeling close to using the word _giddy_ , but he scrunches up his face at the notion. When Craig pulls out his bug guide, he peers over Craig’s shoulder to see what he’s looking at.

The book’s worn down and covered with handwritten notes. It's still neat looking, even though it's obviously well-loved. Tweek catches one of the dully colored scraps of paper, appreciates Craig’s tiny scrawl.

_Army ants close wounds, East Africa, Amazon_

“Hey, I w-was thinking,” Tweek begins, mumbling. Craig looks up, away from his stone concentration face. “Uh, wh-what about the Amazon?”

“What about it?”

“Do you w-wanna see it?” Tweek hums, nervously, pulling on his shirt.

“Someday.” Craig flips the page and his book scarfs that note away. Tweek catches sight of another piece of paper, laminated with scotch tape on the new page. It's been treated like it's holy and of course, it's a drawing of some kind of big bug with no wings on it. Under the pencilled insect is different handwriting, a spacious cursive scrawl. Still tiny. Tweek struggles to read it.

_At last! Be grateful. Happy b-day._

“What’s that?” Craig lights up when Tweek points at the note.

“You remember Ruby, don’t you?”

“Didn’t she u-used to follow us around w-with a, uh,” Tweek’s waving his hands when he talks, as if it’ll speed along the memory retrieval his brain is working with. “Help m-me, man, what’d she do?”

“A lot of stuff. I don’t know. She used to pretend she was a monkey sometimes.”

“Oh yeah!” Tweek grins at the past. “Hey, d-does she still do that?” Craig snorts, a pleasant noise and shakes his head.

“No. God no.”

“Did she d-draw that?”

“Yeah. When I turned fifteen.” Craig thumbs the drawing absentmindedly.

“Good party?” Tweek asks, quietly, leaning on his hands over the table.

“Ruby tried to make a pie. It was bad, Tweek. She added salt to the crust instead of sugar.”

“I w-wish I had a sister.”

“Yeah,” Craig nods. “She’s alright for a pipsqueak. I think she’d like to see you again.”

“Wh-why?”

“‘Cause you’re cool. You’re a cool dude,” Take the hat off, take the hat off, Tweek thinks. He wants to see how those green eyes get illuminated and he can’t do that when they’re living under a brooding shadow. “What are you doing, man?” Craig mumbles.  

“Wh-what?” Tweek bites back. Craig shakes his head, smiling fondly and Tweek definitely feels like a blizzard.

“You’re looking at me all funny. Is it peanut butter," Craig rubs at his face. "Or something I said?” Tweek plunks his head on the table and makes a small squeak. Craig raises an eyebrow. “Coherent.” He doesn’t lift his head as he pulls out the note, fumbling in his pocket and tossing it on the table like it’s trash. Craig watches it settle.

“For you. No peanut butter.” Tweek says, ending the dramatics. Craig claps.

“Encore.” Tweek groans, making the most frustrated sound and Craig takes it as his cue to pick up the paper, folded like a triangle. Tweek listens to it crinkle and doesn’t lift his head. The fluorescent bulb hums, it hems and haws. Tweek feels the smoothness of the table splayed out beneath his head and he tries to calm his breathing.  "Tweek," Craig begins after some moments have passed. Tweek's never heard his name so unsure on Craig's tongue. "Buddy," Craig croaks out. "Uh, what is this?"

"It's for you." Tweek flicks his hand, the shaking wrist, right above his head and lets gravity pull the rest of him to this High School library. The ease is slowly leaving and Tweek feels much too vulnerable. He supposes that's what he gets for letting the idea go to his head. "Don't a-answer me now, o-okay? Think about it. J-just, just do what you're good at. Think, o-okay?" Tweek says, from the table. 

"I," Craig begins. "I," Craig stutters dumbly. "Shit, _really?_ " Tweek nods, finally lifting his head from the table. He gathers his things and spares a glance at Craig. "Wait, goddammit, where are you going? Don't give me  _this,_ " Craig waves the note around. "This bombshell and walk out." Tweek shrugs. 

"Yeah, r-really. Think about i-it. I have math. I'll see you a-after school okay? B-by the bench." Tweek says, eyeing his watch. By the bench, _by the watch children sign_. He flashes Craig a somewhat hesitant smile and is gone like lightning. Craig sits alone at the table, rubbing his forehead. Squinting, he spots a red varsity jacket out of the corner of his eye and he feels like punching a hole through cement.

He needs to chew on this note until his teeth don't feel as strong as they do now, against his lip.

_just run off with me, okay?_

Red metal, it's a ruby red metal swelling up against his tongue. 

* * *

Tweek doesn't have math. He braces himself against the empty music hall, thumbs the candle in his bag and lets out an icy breath.

It's cowardly, isn't it? 

* * *

Sinks sound like oceans, Clyde likes to believe. He likes to believe that hope floats in on them, that they're capable of washing dirt away and down drain, far, far,  _far_ from visible. No one should have to see that mess. 

Clyde runs his back slick against the bathroom door. He barricades it with his frame, that red and white varsity jacket kisses this ugly entryway for the last time. The patches Craig sewed on when Clyde first got the jacket two years ago, when he dumbly left it alone in Craig’s presence, stand out today.

 _The fuckup fairy strikes again_. Bold white capital letters against black. Clyde has to keep that hidden. Craig was smart about the placement, though. It’s sewed in neatly and tightly to the interior of Clyde’s collar. If Clyde understood the importance of seam ripper, if he knew how to use them without getting frustrated and feeling a bit emasculated, Clyde still wouldn't take that patch off. 

In offensive pink and an unmistakable spot on Clyde’s shoulder, another patch reads: _Hottie_

The third and last one is a childish picture of a boat grinning and it proudly says across the untruly blue water: _Ship faced_

It’s a Tuesday. The last Tuesday of High School, the last week he’ll probably have to hide the crass patch.

It’s Tuesday and Craig has a free period. He doesn’t sit with Clyde anymore. He doesn’t try.

Clyde’s had a while to brew it. He's had a while to reflect and obsess over what happened. He probably shouldn't have reacted. He probably should have reasoned, but that's always been his weakness. The present calls him, like always and sunlit days only yearn to be live in. Clyde hates the rain, he hates looking at the past. 

Knives lurk in the past, they don't forget where little boys go. 

Today, Clyde lifts his hand to his chin, thinks he’d prefer standing outside to confront his ex-best friend.

It’s Craig’s free period. Craig’s free period he usually wastes reinventing Clyde's shenanigans into something more tangible and less likely to be caught. Craig’s free period and he's spending it obsessively washing his hands in the sink until they burn red in the water. Clyde continues to observe his best friend,  _no ex-best friend, fool_ , with an ashamed fascination at the rawness. No one else is in the bathroom. There’s no other sound except the clinking of the sink, the way Craig moves his hands when he braces them on the edge of the porcelain, grimacing.

“Water hot enough?” Clyde asks finally, breaking the godawful silence. It drops solid like a brick between them and Craig stops his motion. He looks like he’s thinking about looking at Clyde, but his green eyes stay trained to his hands.

“It’s cold.”

“It doesn’t look it.”

“Yeah, well,” Craig gives a bitter, almost smile. “It is, Clyde.”

“Is that a new patch?” Clyde asks, crossing his arms. It is. Clyde knows it is. _Piss off_ , that’s the look Craig is ready to give him. He fumes, his nostrils flare but when he _finally_ glances up, when he finally looks at Clyde through the mirror, the green eyes are glass. Clyde briefly wonders if they could actually shatter. The sight gets to Clyde, it pulls on the cave of his ribs and like a vacuum, Clyde feels his own eyes wavering, ready to spill. Clyde blinks furiously. Craig was his friend. Craig is never upset. “Why are you crying? You never cry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Craig says, building up that damn wall again. Clyde kicks his foot against the door and hates how Craig flinches. 

“It totally does! What makes _you_ cry, even?”

“Clyde,” Craig sighs, turning his eyes back to the rushing sink water, the dirty smudged bathroom mirror. The crude graffiti. “Can you leave?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Craig huffs a dry snort. He runs the wet hands over his face. “Then I’ll leave.”

“No,” Clyde says, stubbornly, looking like a five year old. “You were the one that punched _me_! You don’t get to leave this. You don’t get to be the one avoiding me, you don’t get to be the asshole.” Clyde exclaims, louder than he means. Craig eyes him, his nose looks fine. There's not even a bump in it.

“You lived, didn’t you?”

“It hurt.” 

“I know,” Craig agrees, a pang of remorse in his eyebrows. “They do hurt.”

“You never talk about it, Craig.” Clyde begins to sink to the floor, sitting in his brutish way.

“There’s not much to say.” Craig states, leaning against the porcelain sink.

“I bet you tell Tweek.” Craig glares.

“I _apologized_  to you, Clyde _._ I tried to talk to you and you’ve been behaving like a goddamn child,” Clyde looks ready to interject and Craig holds up a hand. “No, wait, I gotta finish saying this. _Fuck_ ," Craig looks lost, like he knew where he was going once and the track got switched up and that _greater good dilemma;_ kill one or five? Craig waits. He shakes his head. "On the _last_ ,” Craig frowns, knowing this isn't what he want's to say but he continues on. “On the last week of school, you wanna talk?” Craig grimaces. “You want me to follow you around like I used to, but I’m not your damn puppy.”

"You think you're my puppy? The hell, dude! You never have my back!"

"Going there, huh?" Craig asks, raising eyebrow, a defeated sigh on his lips. "Really, Clyde?"

“What do you even talk to Tweek about? You talk to him _so_ damn much.” Craig scoffs.

“Jesus, Clyde, can't you let it go?” He frowns.

"No. Why him?" _And not me, not me when I've always been your friend why are you so relaxed and open around him it's not fair, it's so far you're so far still so far away_ "Why are you so interested in him?"

"I can't explain it."

"You are so good at explaining things, though. What can't _you_ explain?"

"How I feel. I'm," Craig begins. "Overwhelmed. You don't get it, okay?"

"Try me!"

“Okay," Craig settles. He cringes. "You love Bebe, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Clyde says, as natural as tearing up is to him.

“What if she just vanished into a black hole? What if you didn't see her dumb face again or hear her talk? What if it was eight years?  _Twice_ , Clyde, it's gonna be twice,” Craig makes the symbol, with two fingers and it’s the bunny ears that Clyde still uses for goofy photos. Looks odd in this moment, twists wrong. “Twice, okay? It happened eight years ago and it’s probably happening again so will you just fuck off and let me deal with it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because! You shut _me_ out back then,"  _And I needed my friend._  "Just,” Clyde huffs, stuffs his hands in his pockets frustratedly and looks ready to explode. He manages to steady his breath. “Can we talk about this somewhere else? Please?” The way that Clyde pleads always gets to Craig. He looks so hopeless and lost, his eyes are brimming, ready to spill over so Craig gives in. He _always_ gives in to that dopey expression. He stops the water, pats his hands down on his jeans. He shrugs so nonchalantly, so very much like the best friend that Clyde still wishes he was.

Clyde’s jealous. It’s a pit in his stomach, a seed that won’t dare to sprout. When Craig cries, he steams his eyes. It doesn’t roll down his cheeks and look immature like a baby. Craig’s stone faced again, barely raw anymore. He just looks tired. Clyde gets up, shuffling his feet and not looking at Craig.

“River?” Clyde asks, apprehensively. Craig nods.

“I guess.” Craig eyes the patch. He eyes the patch hugging Clyde’s neck, _the fuckup fairy strikes again._ Two years ago, it was funny. A year ago, it was classic.

Today, its' irony lurches and chews on Craig's face.

“You always put too much on him.” Clyde says, seriously. “You bet,” Clyde swallows down a sob, keeps it inside as his eyes dart around, eyeing their surroundings before they break through the exit door. “You bet that he's this capable guy that can handle everything. Don't put so  _much_ on him sticking around. He can't handle shit, man.”

“There's a lot there.” Craig says, dryly. The exit door exists, the river behind the school is a familiar place. Craig has, on more than one occasion, taken Clyde to the river so his tears over losing a game, over failing a test, over being called an idiot don’t sound as loud. It was Craig’s silent, calm way of telling Clyde he wasn’t alone.

“Know what, Craig? It was a shitty time for everyone,” Craig doesn’t say anything. He sits at the bank and takes off his sweatshirt. He peels off his shoes and socks with the cockroaches on them, dips a toe in the water cautiously before he wades out and flops in deep, floating like a dead man. Clyde doesn’t think before he reacts, running to the bay and nearly jumping in, but Craig’s fine and floating. Clyde's sneakers still get wet and he's near pissed. “I don’t get you!” Clyde shouts and Craig seems to ignore him, with a pained sigh. “I don’t get you, man. The hell! Is this how you deal?”

“One, I live. Two, so do you.” Craig’s voice comes rushed by the water, split up in an unfortunate and unusual way. Clyde doesn’t know how to respond to it.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“What the fuck are you doing in there, you nut?”

“Felt like it.”

“You’ve been hanging with Tweek too much.”

“Maybe. I’m sorry,” Craig begins slowly. “I’m sorry for punching you.”

“You never apologize.” Clyde says, awed at the words. He's waited for an apology for years, for those few arguments they could only settle sometimes by Token sitting in between them.

“I guess I don’t fuck up that often,” Clyde frowns. “It’s a joke. Shit, man, I’m _obviously_ joking. Look at me.” Craig laughs humorlessly from the water.

“It’s not funny. It’s _dark_ , dude.” Clyde finds himself repeating.

“I should be wearing that patch,” Craig says, easily. “How’s Bebe?”

“She got into Berkeley.”

“Fuck, really?” Craig whistles. “Damn, Clyde. Good for her. That’s far.”

“I know,” Clyde thinks about snapping but he knows Craig well enough to understand that this is his way of relating. “She says long distance will work with us. I don’t see how.”

“Just tone down your hormones. Celibacy isn’t tough,” Craig says. “Besides, it’s not cheating when it’s with Rosie Palms.”

“Perv.” Clyde scrunches up his nose. Craig very nearly smiles.

“You _know_ that’s Token’s joke so go call him the perv.”

“Nuh uh, I’m not going to find him. He’s with Wendy. Who _knows_ what position they’re in.”

“Bastard. Bet he won’t even need Rosie,” Craig frowns. “Well, don’t you love her?” Clyde makes a face.

“ _My_ hand?” Craig scoffs.

“I meant Bebe.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally, of course I do.”

“And she loves you,” Craig says simply. Clyde doesn’t look convinced. “She does, man, don’t give me sad face. Don’t be clueless. I know you’re smarter than that,” Clyde wipes at his eyes, feeling more soaked than Craig is and he’s wading in a fucking river. “She’ll be back in the winter, won’t she? It’s just three months, with the breaks,” But three months seems eternal when he sees Bebe’s sweet smile everyday now. When they venture to food stands every day now, when they spend nights together so Clyde's never left with himself. Besides, who else is gonna be a foodie with him? Craig won’t touch anything that comes from an animal while Token has an appetite limited to gatorade and Thai food takeout. “You’ll make it. You’ll keep on living, Clyde. You’ll keep smiling, won’t you? 'Cause, shit, man. Someone's got to.”

Craig has a blunt easy way of putting things in perspective. Clyde wishes he could roll over his brains, show them to Craig so he could analyze his past and make it appear not as fucked up as Clyde’s positive it is.

When the nights are lacking hope, the thing that grows on trees and sprouts feathers for small birds, Clyde thinks about texting Craig his problems. It's when the breathing becomes difficult, the ceiling cracks feel endless, and Clyde's vibrantly aware that actors can always be paused, that he's _so very alone_ , Clyde thinks he might feel better if someone knew. He thinks that Craig might tell him, very simply, that his heart is still pumping and that’s the most difficult part.

Craig might say Clyde hasn’t swallowed any cigars, either. That’s a good way to keep on going. To carry on, don’t swallow that smell. Don’t swallow anymore chocolate with the almond nougat, either. Clyde likes to hope that Craig would congratulate him on that front.

Craig might not say anything. He might listen, receive all the information and knock his knee into Clyde’s, lift him up by the arm with purpose and grab a box of matches.

He hopes Craig wouldn’t give him any pity. He’d hate to see that look, the look he knows he’s given Craig everytime he comes up with a busted lip. Clyde would hate to be mirrored. He hopes Craig wouldn't see him as the soiled, stained, tainted bastard child who ran. 

“She doesn’t know everything.” Clyde blurts. His fingers itch. He watches Craig float in the water, stilled and silent. Nothing splashes. Clyde tucks his arms around his knees, sinks into the soil. “Bebe. She doesn’t know everything that I’ve, that I’ve,” Clyde doesn’t continue the thought. “She doesn’t know. ”Craig raises an eyebrow, aimed at the sky above them.

“Did you cheat on her or something?”

“No! Fuck no. What the hell, Craig? I'd never do that! No, could you imagine? I’d _never_ do that to her,” Clyde says, serious and he picks at his fingernails. He taps his foot impatiently. “I mean, have you _seen_ Bebe? She’s a goddess, dude.”

“I’ve seen her. She does okay.” Clyde rolls his eyes.

“Right. I forget. Her species is wasted on you,” Craig laughs slightly and pulls himself out of the water. He climbs to the bay, looking defeated but strangely, his shoulders express some kind of acceptance. An odd peace. Drenched, dripping wet and chilled, he plops next to Clyde. He lays down, hand on his chest and stares at the sky. “How are you gonna go to your last class like that?”

“Wasn’t really thinking about it.”

“You were supposed to be the smart one out of us, dude.” Clyde says, sniffing.

“I was supposed to be a lot of things,” Craig frowns. He glances up at Clyde, a thoughtful look in his eyebrows and Clyde gives him a confused gaze, overwhelmed by the emotions Craig’s so easily putting out there. Clyde wants to take a picture, make it last and hold it up as blackmail. “Does it have anything to do with Bebe?”

“Huh?” Clyde asks.

“Your _secret_ , dummy. Does it have anything to do with your girlfriend?” Clyde shakes his head solemnly. There’s desolation there. The dilapidated arch of his shoulders is how Clyde gets only when he’s had one too many beers. Clyde doesn’t smell like any of that foul shit they drown themselves in on weekends.

Clyde darts his eyes like scared animal and maybe that’s why Craig sits up, claps a hand on Clyde’s shoulder. A wet hand, comforting, grip strong like a brother would, like a family bond. When Clyde falls under it, Craig lets out a surprised grunt. He's nearly collapsed in this heap of utter loneliness and Craig didn’t realize Clyde would be so easy to cave, after everything, to something as simple as his own hand. Clyde holds on so fucking tightly to Craig's shoulders and in the strangest, _strongest_ of bear hugs, his sadness heaves out like thunder.

When there's beer, when Clyde's had bitter alcohol and he's flushed ditzy with time, Craig shoves him off.

Today, he doesn’t. Today, Craig only experiences the varsity canvas jacket soaking up the cooled river on his neck, watches the water seep. He feels the embroidered letters along Clyde's back, the _O_ and _N_ of Clyde’s last name. _Fuckup fairy_ is too bold in his vision so Craig closes his eyes. He lets Clyde blubber. He doesn’t speak. There’s nothing to say, no words Craig could ask that would make him understand how Clyde’s feeling.

Craig lets the sobs try to explain it. He lets them try and they bloom like bombs, so fucking loud bursting their way to Craig’s ear. At some point, he can’t tell if his own shoulder is wet anymore because of the river below them or because of this awful secret Clyde’s been keeping for a long time. It seems like a long time. Could be years. Craig doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter, Craig decides, as he tightens his hold on his best friend and lets everything that was once clear muddy up.

* * *

"Why are y-you all wet?" Tweek asks, immediately sizing up how much like a drowned rat Craig is looking like. 

“I can’t live in a song.” Craig blurts, like this is the most difficult thing he's had to say and if he didn't speak like this, in his monotoned way, he'd never say anything.

“ _Oh_.” Tweek's face falls to something fleeting. He kicks at the concrete, settles by the bench.

“I wish,” Craig sighs, struggling to construct a sentence. “I wish that there was a way you wouldn’t try. But you’re going to, huh?” Craig asks, rhetorically, taking in Tweek’s appearance. Tweek doesn’t shift expression. “How many stitches was it?” Tweek doesn’t move or aim to say anything. Craig’s pursing his lips. “You know, I have a couple scars, too. I’m still going to be an astrophysicist.”

“Wh-where are they?” Craig shrugs. 

“Where  _aren’t_  they?” Tweek frowns, he frowns as if this look will stop the hurt. “It’s fine, Tweek. That’s my point, though, look,” Craig grimaces. “Those bastards haven’t come for you in years, right? Didn’t you want to be something before,” Craig looks around. “Before all this? Don’t you want to live, leave the ghosts be?” Tweek limply shrugs, slumping in on himself. “They already  _had_  their life. Don’t you wonder where yours could go?” 

“I’m f-fine.”

“You told me once that they rob your time. Fuck, Tweek, you were right. I wish you wouldn’t let them. You’re so much more than this place.” Craig stares at the bleak horizon, feeling his bones twist under the breeze’s weightless gravity. In this moment, Craig really does want nothing more than to leave and never look back. 

But what about Ruby’s double-dutch, their late afternoon walks and the sound that she makes when he does something stupid? Her face, stone cold and still understanding says Craig can do better than he’s doing. What about when she looks sad, scared and Craig feels it in the deepest part of her skull, he can sense it. He can’t leave her when she looks like that. He can’t let her shout, pissy and yeah, maybe she’s overreacting but he can’t leave her to shout at them all alone. He’s still gotta back her up, he's part of the family chorus for life, isn't he? It’s family, anyway. That's the word. That’s her expression. Something only family can give and Craig’s bound. 

Craig’s bound to his mother’s hasty talks by the small fluorescent light in the late evening, an antiqued glass flower shade. He thinks, even with all the shit that’s happened, he’d miss the pine smell of his backyard. Craig would probably miss hiding the lawnchair his dad uses on weekends, when his douchebag friends come over and obnoxiously wave around the beef patties Craig can’t stop feeling sorry for. 

“So, s-so,” Tweek looks unusually vulnerable. “So why can’t we j-just run off? Isn’t th-that what you’re telling me to do anyway?” Craig runs back into reality, where Tweek’s shaky demeanor, citronella and ghosts continue to spook him. Isn’t it the same thing, to tell Tweek to move on? Isn’t that the same thing as running?

“No,” Craig grinds his teeth, unsure of  _why_ Tweek’s wrong but he’s gotta be wrong. Right? “It’s not the same.” No, it’s not the same. It can’t be. 

“It s-sounds the same!” Tweek scoffs. “L-look,” He begins, eyebrows folding and breathing becoming slightly irate. “If you don’t  _l-like_  me anymore, j-just, just fucking  _tell_ me, man. So I c-can go, okay? I don’t,” Craig looks pained, in his dry mannerism, head ducked and eyes focused on the dirt. Tweek doesn’t mean to continue the next sentence. Craig already understands. “I d-don’t  _need_  y-you. I can take care of myself.” 

But he does anyway and those sounds puncture Craig in the pulse of his neck. 

“I know you can. You’re capable. Wish I could follow you.”

“W-well, wh-why can’t we? Don’t you hate it h-here, too?”

“Of course I do.” Tweek looks at Craig expectantly but his face is nowhere near. He’s taken to looking anywhere but Tweek. Tweek feels all sorts of rotten, like his ribs could splay open any second, like they could get in there, everything, all of Craig’s fucking insects, crickets even rubbing their legs and still no autopsy would be able to show what happened eight years ago, eight years ago  _here_  eight years ago  

“You know,” Craig begins quietly. “You still make me want to live, whether you like it or not.”

“I like it, Craig,” Tweek groans, rubbing his hands over his face. He blinks wildly, briefly wondering how his eyelashes would feel if they could ever knot up like his hair. “I l-like that you’re living a whole lot. Can’t we be living out of here?” Craig seems to ponder this, squinting at the sky. 

“How, Tweek? How would we get out of here? You  _hate_ cars.”

“We could w-walk.” Tweek suggests, somewhat urgently. His voice rocks like he’s lying to himself, trying to convince his own head to stop throwing hate at him. Craig flicks his gaze on Tweek, scanning his widened irises, sporting pinhole pupils he didn’t take in a few minutes ago. 

“Where?” Craig asks, feeling like he’s humoring this fantasy, like he’s feeding something that’ll just turn into another beast in the forest, another monster that someone needs to set alight.

“Anywhere else.” Tweek blurts, nudging Craig’s shoe with his toe. Craig stares at the motion, where Tweek’s weight pushed him and his eyelids threaten to close.

“What are we even supposed to be?” Craig asks, insects thrashing, getting caught and tangled within Craig’s own sinews but he needs to talk about it still. Tweek looks lost. 

“I’m t-trying to figure it out, t-too. Existence, s-sentience,  _shit_ , man. That’s a loaded question. It’s tricky stuff, cricket, I got, I got Nietzsche if you want,” Tweek bites his lip. “ _God is d-dead_ , he said. You know,  _I_  g-got strings. Y-you mean that, right? Wh-what are we supposed to be, l-like, why do we exist?” 

“No,” Craig asserts, stronger than he feels. Good. “Not that. Not the big picture. The  _details_ . In this moment, right now, Tweek. Not some distant future.  _Not_ the past, okay? Right now. What are,” Craig knits his hands together. “What do you see me as?”

“You’re m-my,” Tweek tightens his lip to a straight line, looks at Craig intensely like this is the most important thing he’s going to say. “You’re my good months, bug boy. My only good ones. I d-don’t know. You’re my  _friend_.” Tweek draws out the word, curls it in his mouth and it seems like he’s savoring it, testing it to make sure it’s what he means. He's not certain with himself.

“Friends don’t,” Craig begins, somewhat shakily and covers it up with his best neutral stare. Eyes trained on the stop sign, the sign that just ends.  _Stop_. Stop, please don’t say it. “I can’t ride into the goddamn sunset with you.”

“B-because you’re still afraid of the dark?” 

“Because,” Craig sighs, folding his hands methodically in his lap. Waiting for an answer to drop down from andromeda  _why wait for andromeda above when if he just looks to the left a little longer_   _it’s plain to see so plain and so easy to see_ “Why do you want to leave so bad anyway? Don’t you have a lot of ghosts holding onto you?” The freckled constellation twitches slightly. 

“They follow me.”

“How does it work?”

“I’ve, I’ve tr-tried to understand, Craig! I’ve tried and shit, dude,” Tweek scrunches his eyes up, slouching even further on the bench. “I r-really, it’s,” Tweek points to his head. “It’s always so far away, you know?”

“It must be difficult.” Craig says, an unsettling concern chasing anxiety away. 

“It is! It’s h-hard to catch up.” Tweek confirms. 

“Maybe that’s why you’re still running,” Tweek glares. “Don’t you ever sit down?” Tweek gives him a look of protest because  _what the fuck is he doing right now on this godforsaken bench_ and Craig raises a judgemental eyebrow. “I mean figuratively. You _are_ right here, right now. This is the present. It’s  _this_ ,” Craig’s eyes stay stuck where Tweek’s should be. It’s an electric, green sun-speckled gaze and Tweek feels some kind of shock at the zeal of this rumbling tone. Shocks impulse bones and fingers, get them to stretch and explode internally with few external signals besides an exit wound. Tweek’s tongue feels heavy, his mouth feels too small and his lips are dry. “Doesn't it feel good?" The present is uncomfortable, it’s so hard to reflect when Craig looks at him like _this_. Craig sighs as Tweek looks off. "Aren’t you sick of thinking about the past  _so_ goddamn much? I mean, Tweek, you’re not even living anymore. This isn’t living.” 

“What’ll y-you do?” Tweek manages to ask, a throaty question. “Why won’t you g-go with me?”

“Because I know how these things end. I’m no good at making them last. I guess you know, you know how I, um,” Craig chokes, somewhat awkwardly. “I love you. But it,” Craig frowns and pulls on his hat strings absently. “Doesn’t buy us shit, Tweek. It never does.” 

“An a-astrophysicist, huh?” Craig nods, looking slightly relieved at the conversation transitioning away from his feelings, away from the thought of Tweek leaving again. 

“An entomologist, too.” Tweek looks confused. 

“Wh-what’s that?” He mumbles.

“I’d just study bugs,” Craig upturns his mouth. “We can learn a lot from them, you know.” 

“Tell me a-again, m-man.”

“Tell you what?”

“A-about the bugs.”

“You want a kid’s story?”

“Y-yeah,” Tweek pulls his legs up under his chin. “Preferably.” 

“I’m not so good at that.”

“I h-have faith. Mega faith, y-yeah?” Craig snorts.

“You’ll regret it,” Craig says. “One time, I found a beetle. He told me he was making a journey to jupiter and I said, good luck, little guy. It was the last time my whole family went out to eat.” 

“Th-that’s not a children’s story.” Tweek says, a somber smile on his face. Craig wants to make it grow, he wants to see if he can get that to bloom into a grin. 

“Told you you’d regret it. It’s a true story.” Craig confesses, shrugging.

“I don’t regret it. It’s just n-not the same thing.” 

“Well, you tell  _me_. I don’t want a kid’s story, though. I want to know your life experiences. Give me the real stuff.”

“Oh, wh-what, are you a cicada now? You w-want dirt?” Craig’s eyes widen, a tell-tale shift into joy. He looks awake.

“Yeah, exactly. Like a cicada. So spill.” 

“I,” Tweek seems to think about this carefully. “You want happy?” 

“Fuck yes. Like a goddamn children’s book.”

“D-did I ever tell you about my a-aunt?” Craig shakes his head. “R-really?  _Oh_ , dude, sh-she’s magic. She w-worked nights but she doesn’t anymore. Sh-she, she doesn’t do that sh-shit anymore,” Nothing’s a children’s book with Tweek, Craig realizes. “She sewed the b-buttons off my shirts, when I w-was,” Tweek grimaces. “After. You sh-should meet her. She has a j-jar of jellybeans in her kitchen. If y-you’re good, you can take a f-few. She always put aside the popcorn ones f-for me.”

“I liked the marshmallow ones.” Craig says. Tweek flashes him a look, close to a smile. 

“You w-would, you big softie.”

“That wasn’t much of a story.” 

“I,” Tweek begins to argue. “Th-that’s fair.”

“Do you even have happy stories, Tweek?” Craig says, bluntly. Tweek glares hard at him, sputtering. 

“Of course I d-do. Yeah, yes. Yeah.” 

“No, I mean, your  _own_ happy stories. Not ghosts. Nothing in a history book or on the radio,” Tweek doesn’t answer, just slumps and Craig feels like an asshole. Tweek taps his wrist with a flicking motion, reminding Craig of how landscapes look through freight train windows. “Astrophysicists,” Craig adjusts his shoulders, straightens himself up in his pockets. “They say that there are billions and billions of galaxies out there,” Craig brightens, eyes slightly widened and mouth turned up a little. Tweek simply scans his face. “And in each of those galaxies, they have planets, too, so the possibility of alien life,” Craig notices Tweek dig into his wrist out of the corner of his eye, leaving fingernail marks like waxing crescents. Craig lays his hands flat on the table, more to brace himself than anything else. “It’s strong, Tweek. It’s really strong. It’s just about finding it, which could take years and years but it could be tomorrow. We don’t know,” Craig remains seated still for a moment. “I guess it could’ve been yesterday.” 

“It happened. I feel the,” Tweek says, lacking certainty. “I still f-feel the dirt th-they put in me.” Craig frowns. 

“I believe you. I just want to find them.”

“A-aren’t I proof enough?” Tweek asks, blinking intensely, uncontrollably. “They,” Tweek inhales his own spit, struggling to keep his voice to a whisper. “They f-fucked me up a-and, and my wrist,” Tweek starts pulling at the scar on his wrist, thumbing the old wound, deep in concentration. “Can’t you see th-their fingerprints? I mean, I  _th-think it’s fingerprints_ \--- do they h-have them? Is it just smooth like thread?” Tweek asks himself, wildly. “Th-they left so m-much, _too_  much, for you not t-to see  _anything_ . It’s fucked up. It’s f-fucked up that you, you, uh,  _love_ this.” Tweek utters so quietly. 

Craig’s fantastic at taking risks. He hotwired that asshole teacher’s car and left it at a strip joint. He’s been sneaking into R-rated movies since he was eight. Craig wears a grimace still, a thick glare that sets his sights into the sky behind Tweek’s blonde mess of hair. He thinks about the time he crawled under the bridge over there, stone-faced in a drunken haze and screamed to Clyde about how blue the sky was and how much he loved beetles. Token asked,  _what Beatle is your favorite?_  Craig just stared and said  _there’s three hundred thousand, I don’t have a favorite._ He was fine that night, glad even and he told Clyde how much he meant to him. Clyde was a good friend, Craig thinks, because he didn’t let Craig complete that dare of the night. 

Walk the flat steel that holds the bridge up, walk it like a tightrope.  _Kenny_ did walk the steel, though and somehow he survived. Craig thinks the next bet should’ve been  _fly like an angel_ , because Kenny would’ve failed and Craig wouldn’t have had to give him any money.

Craig’s wild at taking risks, even though they often come with shitty aftermaths. All those past bets, those dumbass nights spent wasting time and money pale compared to this moment. The time he lied to a group of cops after he’d taken a number hits of Kenny’s godawful weed doesn’t even feel like a risk. It all pales, looking at the falling neon green bandaids on Tweek’s ring finger, the pink white smooth scar and Craig stares at that finger for a long time. Craig doesn’t feel like he’s taken a damn risk at all until he curls his hand and knuckles Tweek’s palm. It’s featherlight and Tweek still flinches. Craig taps his knuckles against Tweek’s palm, seeing his bones shift. Craig feels like shit. He promised he wouldn’t do anything like this. He sighs, moves away until there’s air between their hands. The gap doesn’t last long. Tweek’s grip pulls Craig’s hand intense and solid. Craig would be totally lying if it wasn’t the most intoxicating sensation he’s had, even though his hand is crumpled into an uncomfortable fist. 

Tweek releases his grip briefly, seems to relax as his other hand. Craig’s eyes watch with deliberation, with caution as Tweek’s actions are blurred by his small movements. He opens up Craig’s fist. 

“Is th-this the hand you write with?” Tweek mumbles. Craig simply nods, dumbfounded as Tweek’s concentration seems to go solely be on him. He looks up at Craig, slight bit of light in his eyes. Tweek expectantly stares at Craig, seems to be asking for something. He rolls his eyes when Craig doesn’t get it but Craig’s pretty sure he can’t hear anything else besides the blood pounding to his ears. “C-can I see your other hand?” Craig swears, for a fraction of a second, Tweek winks. Craig just lays his hand flat out in front of him and Tweek eagerly grabs onto, turning it over to look at the palm. He crosses his legs on the bench, criss cross applesauce. He makes a small sound. “Jeez, cricket, they’re cold.”

“Why do you think I fare better in the summer?”

“I thought it was because you c-could see all your relatives.” Tweek says, slight smile. 

“Yeah, that, too.” Tweek’s got his storm cloud eyes on Craig’s palm, his fingers cradling it up to his face and he looks ready to dissect. Craig would be okay with that, he decides. 

“You  _do_  h-have air hands,” Tweek says, with this sweet expression on his face, like Craig’s hands are something to be treasured and Craig’s not over this moment. He glances up briefly. "I knew you did." Craig knows that in some distant future, weeks and even years from now, he still won’t be over the way Tweek says  _air,_ how slowly his mouth moves, how it zig-zags so prettily, _pink and pleasant._

“The fuck, dude.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tweek whispers, suddenly sobered. His fingertips graze the area beneath Craig’s middle finger. Tweek’s tracing a fold there so fucking delicately and Craig thinks it sure is difficult to keep up with this whole breathing charade. “Did y-you know that these,” Tweek runs his finger along on the pads underneath Craig’s fingers. “Are named after planets?” Craig raises an eyebrow, attempts to keep his look normal. 

“Um.”  _Yeah, way to go, buddy!_

“Um, um,” Tweek mocks lightly. “Y-yep. Th-this one’s venus.”

“Really?” Craig croaks out delightfully and finds himself scowling slightly at his behavior. Tweek nods. 

“Mhmm, th-this one’s the moon.” Tweek says, thoughtfully, his own thumb lying over Craig’s pinky. Craig flexes his hand under the movement of Tweek’s fingerprints. 

“The moon’s not a planet. It’s our only natural satellite but it’s not a planet.” Craig blurts and Tweek scoffs, laughing. It’s odd. Craig can see Tweek’s shoulders shaking and he can feel it connecting with his own body, his own core and he smiles too. Damn, when did Tweek’s shifting emotions get so contagious?

“I knew y-you’d say something like that.” Craig feels mildly embarrassed but Tweek doesn’t seem to be minding. 

“What’s it do? This thing, I mean.”

“Builds our h-hopes and dreams. Y-you,” Tweek begins, choosing his words carefully. “I-it’s nice to be in your head, isn’t it? I m-mean, it’s a  _good_  place, right?” Craig shifts his jaw.  

“It’s fine.”

“Y-you should,” Tweek almost looks bashful. “You should sh-show me sometime what it’s like, o-okay?” Craig’s not necessarily sure what Tweek means. 

“What’s my future say?” 

“It says t-to run with me,” Craig narrows his eyes at his hands, squints to see if that's what written in there. “It’s okay. Y-your hand doesn’t say that.”

“Tweek,” Craig furrows his brows. “Tweek, how can I run off with you when I don’t even know where you live? I mean, you don’t actually  _live_ in the church, do you?” 

“I’m not homeless.” 

“Well, where do you live?” Tweek says nothing, just holds onto Craig’s hands tighter. “Don’t do  _this_  to me, man.” Craig mutters, somewhat pleadingly. 

“N-no, I know. I know you can’t. I know how it ends.” Tweek says, tight-lipped. 

“What’s your hand?”

“Shit.” Tweek states, simply, outstretching his palm for Craig to see. 

“Read it. Tell me something.” Tweek gives a half-shrug, half-confused and maybe even slightly peeved look. He sighs, giving up and points to the folds of his palm. 

“See th-this one? That’s my heart line.” Craig analyses it carefully, pulling it up close to his face. The line’s long, it tucks way past Tweek’s ring finger. 

“What is it supposed to mean? Looks like it's got little crosses.”

“It’s j-just,” Tweek looks slightly frazzled. He starts to pull away from Craig’s critical gaze. “It’s n-not a big deal. You probably d-don’t believe in this st-stuff anyway.” 

“No, I wanna know, Tweek.” Tweek takes Craig’s hand back. He puts two fingers over the center of Craig’s palm.

“This is the plain of mars. See,” Tweek taps the center evenly. “See th-that? It’s a dip.”

“Uh huh.” 

“You’re t-too patient, Craig. You sh-shouldn’t be this way.”

“I don’t think I’m patient at all. When are you leaving?” Tweek shrugs. 

“Soon. I, I still have something t-to give you, cricket. Don’t be s-so sad, okay? Entomologist, right?” Tweek knows when Craig loves, it’s deep. He could tell on that heart line, the chains and breaks it held. How far it ran. 

Tweek needs to run.

"Hey, Tweek," Craig begins, slowly. He stares behind Tweek, at the sun floating through sky, hued creamy white and daydreams about how it reflects off winged insects, dugout roofs, gravestones and riverbanks, from above. " _Battle not with_ _monsters_ ," Craig recites, like he's been mouthing along to the words in his head for a while now. _"Lest you become a monster._ _And if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you,_ " Tweek looks at him slightly bewildered. Craig shrugs. "See? I know some things. There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya." The joke falls flat. Tweek doesn't understand why he pretends to laugh. 

"I'll miss you s-so fucking much." Tweek blurts, honestly surprised with himself. Craig folds his eyebrows, arches them upward. 

"But you have to go?" Craig means to state it, means to remind Tweek but it comes off more as a pleading question. Tweek doesn't answer. He just thumbs the plain of mars and the two of them sit on that bench, watch the sky twist until it puffs off cotton candy and Tweek thinks he still wants to eat that sky.  

Craig waits for the stars far too much, he thinks about how Tweek smells so strongly like those candles and how easily everything ends, how fast the lifespan is of a bumblebee, of a flea and yeah, of a  _human_ is. How delicate, the paper thin wings dance in the same pattern as Tweek's jittering hand and how Tweek must be so _weighted_ to stay on the ground when he's clearly something more. 


	22. and october wore our ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry for the long wait. i've had a lot going on lately and i'm sorry if i haven't responded to some of your comments. i promise i will get to those this weekend. 
> 
> i just wanted to mention that this chapter was very difficult to write because of the content. it has a lot of stream of conscious writing in it, too, so it is probably going to be difficult to read for multiple reasons. IMPORTANT: if you're a csa victim or victim of any kind of sexual abuse, this chapter could be a trigger and you may want to avoid it. there's nothing explicit, but there is a lot heavily implied.
> 
> i love you all so much, thank you for sticking with this story this long. <3 as always, if i've ever written something you're uncomfortable with or offended by, please, totally let me know. thanks so much.

“Help me write it.”

“But,” Tweek says seriously, clenching onto a book he’s reading. “It’s not true.” Clyde stares at the book. He'd know it anywhere, he'd know that damn book because it's the same one that Craig bought in middle school. It's the same one that he brought everywhere, showed off in his quiet and proud way by reading it in the lunch line, waiting for apple juice. Reading it during Clyde and Token's games, when neither of them were playing or 'feeling like tough, important big kids' as Craig liked to put it.

It's Craig's bug guide, his security blanket and Clyde can't believe he let Tweek borrow it. His insides churn, not butter, and only guilt. Clyde feels like shit. Craig must be a fucking sap, he must be so miserably and hopelessly in love with Tweek. Clyde knows Tweek's not confident on that front, he knows how Tweek's body must feel wrong.

Tweek’s always had a scary solid grip, though, with the whites of his knuckles showing even in handshakes. Not that he does that much. The book looks ready to tear under his grasp. 

“Just,” Clyde arches his shoulders, rolls his neck until it cracks and eyes the sidewalk. “Please do this for me?” Clyde adds, quietly.

“But you’d be _lying_ to everyone.”

“Tweek,” Clyde turns on his heel and faces Tweek again, visibly exasperated. “The place where we used to get pancakes is still around. Are you hungry?”

“But you’d be _lying_ to everyone.” Tweek repeats. Clyde stuffs his hands in his pockets impatiently.

“ _I’m_ hungry. Let’s get breakfast. Scrambled eggs sound good?”

“Don’t lie. Bad,” Rotten? “Rotten kids lie.”

“ _Confused_ kids, too,” Clyde states, clenched jaw and he expectantly looks at Tweek. “Come with me. I’m not going alone.”

Where did their secrets go to, the ones that Tweek lost or never properly knew? It’s in a blizzard. It’s June, school's out in a couple days and how’d Tweek get so lost in a sleeting snowstorm when it's so hot under the summer sun, under fresh, _fresh_ grass? Vision’s vicious, blurred and covered up.

That’s the way secrets are supposed to stay.

Clyde’s walking fast and Tweek’s not sure why he’s bothering to keep up. He doesn’t trust restaurants. Fuck, he doesn't even trust  _Clyde._  They’re going down roads that Tweek's avoided for years, cutting by Clyde’s house. Tweek stares at it, amazed by how nothing’s changed. Still mauve shutters and it's still got those untrimmed hedges out front. He bets that the front screen door still cries when it shuts. Tweek doesn’t even recognize the place next door.

That place though, the house next door was Tweek's first home. It’s a plot grown over, it’s ivy covering the clapboards of it, pretending it can soak away the past and purify the damn building of all its' sins.

His first home. Clyde and him used to be neighbors.

The witch window still gazes down on everything. It used to be painted green, even to the tucked ends of the eaves. The creamed yellow that’s thinly stretched now doesn’t change that fact.

It will always be evergreens in Tweek’s memory.

Clyde tugs on his arm, pulls him away hurriedly from the view of his old house, somewhere he hasn’t bothered to look at in years.

There’s a pink tricycle, though, Tweek spots as he gets taken away. It’s got a sagging tire and it’s been left rusting by the garden shed. It belongs to a girl who’s grown up in the room he was supposed to have.

Tweek knows a tape is buried there, safely, away from the prying eyes like wrenches dipped in disease and illness and best friends that _leave you rotting_

“There’s police reports. Maybe,” Clyde sighs, mouth slightly agape and gaze distanced. “Maybe, we can talk about it when you finally figure it out.”

“Uh.” Tweek mutters. Clyde stares at him, the patches glare out.  _Ship faced_ , Tweek almost laughs. Almost, if he wasn't so drifted, if he didn't feel weightless and disconnected from this life. When Clyde looks at him, brown eyes all serious and insecure, Tweek thinks about a past riddled with secrets and lies. No matter how fast his mind drifts, Clyde does nothing to remind him of the present.

He's history, that big lug, the asshole just makes the past easier to get to, the bad feelings more potent. Extracted, that's what it is.

Extracted. 

“Where are you living now? I heard your dad,” Clyde stammers awkward, dances around the statement. “Well, I _heard_ about what happened to him.”

“I, it’s h-hot today.”

“Why are you _so_ impossible to talk to?”

“G-gee, I don’t know, Clyde, _I_ d-don’t talk to myself anymore.” Clyde pulls something out of his pocket, a small box and shoves it towards Tweek. Tweek flinches and fumbles to take it.

They’re storebrand matches. Tweek slides the lid off the box and glances at those wooden sticks, smooth chalky turquoise sulfur tips. He shuts it closed fast, shaking.

“Do it again,” Clyde states, forehead shinier than normal and an uncertain urgency. “I’ll watch, I’ll watch it all burn. I won’t,” Clyde begins slowly. “I won’t run this time.” Tweek tosses the matches between his hands, listening to the clinking sound they make.

“Don’t tell me wh-what to do,” Tweek mutters, instinctively defiant. “You th-think it’d melt like Mars Bars?” Clyde stares, mouth hanging open until he shuts it close with a frustrated sigh.

“You can’t just go around saying shit like that. People,” Clyde frowns. "People will think you're, you know."

“Well, y-you hand me a pack of matches, wh-what do you expect, Clyde? The fuck do you,” The church burnt out by stained glass, it _would_ melt like nougat, and the lullabies and the journal all those happy photographs are just photographs dust-cured and places that don’t need to exist anymore of a place where innocence pretended no wait where it was supposed to lie “Do you expect?”

“Come on.” Clyde states, nerves rattling and Tweek notices his anxiety. He shakes his head.

“Uh uh. No, I’m not going.”

“Tweek, come on. Come with me."

"I d-don't eat sugar, I don't eat pancakes anymore. I'll p-puke." 

"I don't eat them either. I'd puke, too, like Stan."

"Stan st-still does that?"

"Sometimes, when he's checking out Wendy. It's funny."

"S-sounds gross."

"That's the beauty of it, Tweek."

"Oh."

"You need to,” Clyde frowns, shifts on one leg. He squints. “You need come with me. You have see this.”

“What? S-see what, Clyde?”

“It’s about them, alright? About those,” When Clyde scuffs his shoe on the cement, he thinks it’s less out of anger and more out of regret. “Those monsters.”

"R-really? You," Tweek looks so surprised, almost pleased and Clyde feels physically ill. "Wow."

"So will ya join me?" Tweek shrugs. 

"Okay." He mutters. Clyde turns, not much happier and starts walking the sidewalk. Tweek follows like a starved animal would to the scent of stale bread. They near a couple streets Tweek recognizes, even if he doesn’t go into town too much. There’s the unitarian church, the LDS one and oh.

Oh, that empty spot was the coffee shop, wasn’t it? Clyde tugs him along again and Tweek lets himself be pulled over to cement steps. To chipped stone and the old library that fades into the scenery. Dull and gray. Tried and true, like the rest of the buildings on this block.

“You r-read?” Tweek asks, surprised and Clyde scoffs.

“Not unless I have to,” Tweek slumps his shoulders, suddenly disinterested in the conversation as Clyde opens the door. “Come on.”

Tweek trails slowly behind, letting the musty books, text and words he might never consume, all envelope him like a cocoon. The psychology section looks welcoming in his mind.

“Tweek!” Clyde calls out somewhat urgently. Tweek gives him a glare, feeling like a trained poodle as he slinks back towards Clyde. Clyde at the front desk.

There’s a librarian who gives them both a harsh glare, despite the fact that no one’s in here today so who cares if he shouts? Clyde’s gut reaction is his charming smile but it comes off shakey. Tweek’s gut reaction is a flinching obliviousness. The librarian leaves them both, unimpressed. Clyde’s standing, waiting impatiently for something.

It’s too hot to be inside, Tweek thinks he’d like to be sinking in the river right about now.  

“Okay. O-okay, sure," Tweek mutters. "What is it? Wh-why are we in here?”

“Just, _look_ , pal," Clyde starts and Tweek feels like being called _pal_ by Clyde is some kind of milestone in their damaged friendship. "The librarian’s getting it.”

“Getting _what_?” Tweek asks, something close to anger itching at his throat.

“Tweek, just _trust_ me.”

“No, I _don’t_ t-trust you.” Clyde frowns.

“You’re supposed to say: _fine_. _Fine, I trust you, Clyde_. That’s what you’re supposed to say.” Clyde grits out.

“Well, I d-don’t lie and I don’t trust you.”

“Why are you here then? Why’d you come along with me all this way?”

“Because I’m c-curious. I don’t have t-to,” Tweek scoffs. “I don’t have to trust you t-to be curious.”

“Well, _fine_ , paranoia.”

“Good.” The silence eats and it’s tense, slightly overwhelming. Tweek just wants to fall asleep in the psych section, surrounded by disorders to make him feel less alone.

The librarian comes back, pulls out a slew of old newspapers laminated together and raises a suspicious eyebrow at them. Clyde just says his thanks and stows away with them, to a large oak table out of sight. Tweek follows, spinning around to eye the high ceilings and books. To take everything in that could be his to know, one day. Maybe.

Tall goal, tall order for a small guy.

“Read. Read it, okay?” Clyde states and as evenly as he's trying, it only makes Tweek nervous. Clyde's gesturing to the newspapers he’s splayed out and organized somewhat haphazardly. He carefully scans one and puts it in front of Tweek. Tweek scrunches his nose and Clyde rolls his eyes, pulling up a chair, sitting Tweek down in it. Tweek flinches, pushes Clyde's hands off. “I know you’re leaving,” Tweek looks ready to protest. “Craig told me, kinda,” That _bastard_ , the beautiful bastard. “Well, I, uh, pried it outta him a little bit but I thought about it for a while. Repressing things, it sucks, Tweek. It's really shitty and, well, you've seen how Craig gets when he fights with his dad, right?”

"Th-they're not nice people."

"Yeah, I know! I know, Tweek, but Craig won't  _talk_ about it. I mean," Clyde slumps. "Not with  _me,_ anyway."

"He d-doesn't talk about it."

"What do you two  _do?_ Do I even wanna know?" Tweek's stuck on the last question, ignoring Clyde's odd, suggestive comments.

"Wh-why would he want to t-talk about it? What is there to s-say, Clyde?"

"I don't know. Just _something._ "

"C-Craig talks," Tweek smiles slightly. The sight breaks Clyde, right there. The sight of it and he feels guilty, guiltier every second for what he did to Tweek, for how he left him and how he tried to beat it out of him. It wasn't like Clyde. Clyde's a nice guy and he somehow still believes in  _love_. Tweek doesn't get it, but it's there, just hidden in the sun after storm glint Tweek's eye has when he mentions Craig. "Craig talks in textbook poetry, Clyde."

"Huh, so what? What's that mean? Sounds a little---"

"---gay?" Tweek interrupts, eyebrow raised. Clyde nods, sheepish. 

"Is it? I mean, are you just going to leave and shit on Craig's feelings? You know that he won't talk to anyone after you go. He's going to be a brooding asshole."

"M-maybe you shouldn't bother h-him when he wants to be alone." Tweek says, no smile and twiddling thumbs. 

"I want to help him. He's my friend, dude."

"Y-yeah? Still? Since when?"

"Since 2004."

"Have y-you," Tweek furrows his brows. "Have you t-told him about the aliens, then?" Clyde huffs, forehead creasing. He focuses back on the table, looks at where they are, in the corner surrounded by books and far away from that librarian's skeptical eyes. 

“You should know this before you go, you really should _know_ what happened.” 

“What? Know, _ngh_ , what?”

“Just read the damn paper, spaz.”

“I thought w-we were past all the nasty names, Dumbo.”

“Sorry, it’s, I can’t help it. Sorry. It’s important that you read _this_ , so just do it?” Tweek nearly protests. With one look up at Clyde’s oddly pleading face, he decides maybe he should read.

He’s great at reading, anyway.

Tweek eyes the dates first, proud of himself for being so normal. The newspapers are tucked together and the print is small, not even a headliner. 

It’s not even a headliner, it’s from seven years ago and it’s not even a headliner.

Nobody would suspect anything. The text tells him there was an explosion. It was a drawn out deal, some of his father’s friends busted each other up, split bloody with candy apple colored wounds and it seven years ago. No dead blind. Illegal gambling, they found. They arrested a few prostitutes and no one else survived the blast.

Not even dragon man.

Clyde said the guy was in Mexico. Guess _he’s_ not right about everything either.

Tweek doesn’t realize he’s tapping his foot so loudly until he feels the air fall in sporadically and leave him wheezing. Until he feels Clyde rest his hand on his shoulder, hesitantly. Tweek shoves it off. Tweek pulls at the papers, scrambling to read through the key points. Clyde leans against table, crossing his arms and waiting. His weight jolts the papers with their sick photos plastered on so they glare soberly at Tweek. Tweek crinkles the page, tight white knuckles, _continued on A4_ , getting closer and closer to the eyes he could never see as clearly as this and they’re still grainy.

Tap his wrist a little longer and --- _oh._ Oh.

No, this can’t be right. Wouldn’t he remember what their voices sounded like?

“Tar. They sounded like tar.” Clyde’s plain, matter of fact voice is clear and in no way grounding enough because shit

Shit this _can’t be right it wasn’t right nothing was right_

Now that they’ve burned down to dust, have they said brutal things through that candle to Tweek? Did they ever talk to him? Has he _helped_ them cross over, without knowing who they were, what _they did they touched him there and_ and have they listened to him _constantly running mind always lit like a lighthouse alone never alone he's never alone with his thoughts they're so_  loud loud loud motherfuckers _and warning_ to just let him lie there thrashing and lost and stuck in a past filled with monsters beasts beneath teeth gnashing tongues beneath a blanket _not his blanket not a home like the starry sky_ and pulling thick hands and sticky stuck fingers so damn stuck knotted and his toes feel how deliberate it was

The library, apparently, has a very strict No Puking Policy.

The curb doesn’t employ that same policy, the alleyway definitely _doesn’t_ but Tweek can’t find his way to either of those places. Clyde tries to lead him along but Tweek’s pretty sure he’s not saying anything, _he needs someone to tell him what he’s doing but_ he can’t hear anything clearly. And if Clyde touches him again

If Clyde lays a goddamn hand on him right now, he’s going to rip apart asphalt, he’s going to feel it crumble and he’s going to fall and he’s going to walk he’s going to run but he can’t move his feet aren’t going anywhere and _jesus fucking christ don’t touch don’t touch don’t touch_

When they were _kids_ , jeez, they could run for days. Tweek can barely stand up without wavering now. What happened to them? _He knows what happened he knows_ They’d breathe in fresh sunlight, reek like pine cones and live in places that reality wouldn’t support.  

Tweek wishes he could go to those places now. _Fuck_ reality.

He’s never been so _livid_ and he _will_ claw his way through all that godawful cement, rip apart asphalt and feel the sidewalk _nice wonder wonder-boy wonder what this would feel like against_ someone else’s wrist _the devil didn't live in Tweek it wasn't the devil it wasn't a demon it was a fucking_  human how was it human against _their meaty hands to hold a chunk of concrete in his fist and blast through the face of one of them and_ hey, _good_ fucking job and he could scream so raw, until his throat ate glass and yeah, he should feel so damn pleased now that they’re dead, now that he knows the bastards are dead now that they tasted fire _flames of everything_ they faced the same fucking fire fire they _made him swallow_ _back then_ and it gnawed open those _uncalloused fingers_ those faces the eyes that never stared or asked _theyneverneverasked_ seared perfect gummies vicious gooey and those fucking teeth were left charred and that’s how they knew them that’s how they identified it went bitter and cigar smoke was nothing to all the burning flesh, to _melting hair and_

And there once was an explosion, Tweek can be another.

Tweek doesn’t blame Clyde for getting so angry a month ago. Tweek thinks, beating someone up would probably feel pretty relieving, especially the annoying fuck he is. If Tweek could beat himself up, he wouldn’t hold back either.

“I think you’ve been doing that for a long time. I did it, too,” Clyde must be here, he must be here _now eight years too fucking late_ and when the fuck did Clyde come back? Why didn’t he stop it, stop them from ripping? Clyde knew, he _knew_ what they were capable of, why else would he have ran? Tweek feels it, he feels the storm rumbling but _shit,_ didn’t he deserve this didn’t he _deserve what happened_ for being the way he was? For listening in and “No. No, we didn’t,” Clyde sounds again, broken and still ever so plain. “We didn’t deserve any of that. Come on, okay?”

If it’s over, why does his skin still feel so wrong? _Don’t touch don’t fucking touch_

They polluted him and stained glass never laid their shadows across his body like this. It was aliens, nothing was human nothing human could do that he he swore it was

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t, Tweek.”

It wasn’t aliens. It wasn't galactic. It wasn't aliens, it wasn't aliens.

Fuck reality if _this_ is it. This feeling, it’s _too much_ , it’s too vulnerable.

Fuck it because beneath his skin, a ticker blossoms like pop rocks.

In periwinkle, pink blushing hydrangeas promise to disinfect. Nothing, nothing even in the soma, feels close to decent.  _N_ _othing_ is decent and nothing is sacred.

It’s sick, getting sicker and couldn’t he just fall down in some hole, hit his head and knock himself unconscious, blues

So he can forget again. Say he doesn’t have to remember any junkie’s pulse. Say he doesn’t have the same tempo as his mama’s heart, same tempo that used to thump out brassy New Orleans jazz.

The wild brain fizzes through stretches of nothing. In between piles of dirt, trailing the smell of ochre, of burnt umber and it seizures charcoal, floating ashes through cigars.

 _Tastes_ like purple under the tongue of some other. Tweek shouldn’t have to know how it tastes.

He’s wrought wrong. He’s wrought.

But Tweek read about them a couple of years ago, about _false_ memories and maybe it’s just one of those maybe it’s not what the paper calls it maybe it’s not how Clyde talks about it maybe it’s not

“You’re there. You _know_ what happened. I haven’t fed anything to you. I’m not going to _lie_ about,” Clyde broke, Clyde broke. “About _this_.”

the mount of venus _nomound_ fused when Tweek flexed his hand and Tweek stares at. It’s the palm of no other, it’s the stretching blemishes and his crosses are tied together and bound it’s something it’s something it’s something that used to exist and there was something here, there _was_ something and it’s not that it didn’t exist, like _they_ said ---- no, no, it always existed.

They just hid it.

“Yeah.” Clyde seems to agree about something, _for fucking once_. They’re touching fresh grass now and Tweek feels his shoes off until his toes markup some kind of dirt and Clyde seems to be mad about this but there was no fresh air back then, can’t Clyde just let him do this? Can’t he just claim this little solace, this feeling until everything lets him be, for _fucking once couldn’t people just leave him alone and not touch him not try to get to him not talk to him_ because

Cigars, rich big guys. No fresh air. Some expensive cologne, cheap alcohol. Nothing clean.

There’s never _been_ anything clean about table-top poker chips clenched in a knot, in small fingers sweaty sweaty deep under fingernails until they pluck self destructive filthy, dulled and dumbed down sticky with _and fuck it it’s twice it was twice it’s twice._ Things you can never replace. Twice and they still feel around, greedy on his collar bone that’s been talking to _touch_ him _like a precious doll_ they say they _said_ he was just like a precious doll

You can’t hurt a doll, you can’t hurt something that’s not even living and they said he was just like a _doll_ so it wouldn’t hurt, they promised it wouldn’t hurt.

There was a wall and a neon purple sign that hung. It wasn’t crooked. It flashed a woman's silhouette, her leg kicked up and Tweek stared at her for long time, until her foot burned in his retinas. In the pit of his optic nerves, every four seconds, _kick_.

Four seconds. _Can-Can_. Four seconds. _Kick_.

Where the boar foams, unpleasant and

Four seconds. _Kick._ Foud seco

“---nd. Slow down a second,” Clyde speaks again, from a distance and Tweek didn’t know he was still around. Didn’t Clyde leave a long, long, _long_ time ago? Hey, _yeah_ , why’d that asshole even come back? The grass is under his feet and it’s too damn hot out here, it’s so hot. “It’s over, pal, it’s over. I’m sick of hiding, okay? I bet you are, too, so don't just go off and hide.”

The neon woman made halos, she _hid_ their faces. Made them backlit vultures, nothing but _shadows with wet teeth_ and shadows don’t run. Shadows don’t hide. Shadows have no eyes but they don’t need eyes to find him. All they need is mouths eager to mark him, to catalog him like he’s this iridescent priceless plaything.

To record him like they’re not sick, that he’s not just another file, another extension to their collection of small unsullied things.

And Tweek’s not dead, not alive, he’s something in between with stunted breathing.

He thinks _his mandible_ they need to leave and he thinks _the spot on his back the watermark_  needs to leave and it's just  _the birthmark alone they say looks like a map like a country_ like some place he’s never been would be _nice_ to go to now and he wonders what that place is he wonders, _wonder-boy always wonders_ , what freshness lives in their air and he prays it’s not stale he thinks _they take_ he thinks that he could go there and he _asks where Clyde went_

“I didn’t go anywhere, dude.”

and he would like to go he would like to go home he would not like to stay there he needs evergreens and he needs to be alone

There, alone. All alone, he needs to be alone. This is a greedy place, with greedy _men_ , and Tweek's just as greedy, he thinks he’s just as greedy with his time because he wants to go home, to be all alone. That’s his, _his._  That’s supposed to be his and they've stolen it, he wishes he remembers when it _was_ his, once, maybe and he thinks about

_when_

he could fly

he’d fly by mars

and

to the moon, not back _not his back_ and not come back and never be back here, maybe.

Maybe there’s wheat grass in the country, in this place his birthmark memorializes. Maybe it’s not flowering goldenrods. Maybe he’s not _golden boy_ there. He hates being _golden boy_.

He knows nothing is golden, _this is_ _nothing_. This is what nothing feels like.

He knows they can’t pry his tense hands apart they can’t get the chips and the cards back and he’s not precious they spit he’s not their precious pretty doll anymore dolls don’t bleed and he’s just a rotten kid a shithead an incompetent thing _so_ difficult and he tried to run the second time it’s tart possessive grabs inhuman ruthless cold ----

_Beneath his skin, melted milky sweet chocolate coos, promises his arteries won’t clot._

He wishes they would.

\---- palm over fists, having fits and it’s over and red faced stolen _stolen stolen stolen stolen_ his ribs fell undone he was done and hands ran until he was _numbed_

"Tweek, are you gonna scream if I help you up? Do you mind if I touch you?"

They never asked. They never asked.

Say he doesn’t have to remember, say he doesn’t have to feel this sick, this queasy in the gut and it’s threatening to lurch up his throat again _when what did he even eat_ he’s filthy he’s a mess he’s so tired of running and it still feels sore this is why he hates when people touch when people crowd _why he’s so defective so defensive_

What’s he even protecting anyway? What’s so important? It’s not like they haven’t already _stolen stolen stolen_

His ribs fell, done, and he was undone. Numbed, he ran his hands until he came up with an answer to the questions he thought he was asking.

He mumbled, thought he was screaming _aliens_ but no sound came _._ He swore they were and he wondered what he had, what he had that tore through them, _what he did to them_ and made them know that night, his sanity was worth ending,

Four seconds. _Kick_.

he knew flowers wilt and die and mothers don’t live like angels and

Four seconds. _Can-Can._

ghosts can’t talk a little boy out of harm’s out they can’t tell him to get the fuck out when there’s no exit and what kills makes you weak anyway out of grounds out of the mount of venus out of saturn’s grasp

To mars, to home, to mars to home tomarstohometohometohome

And Tweek’s not dead, not dead; he’s alive with shallow breathing.

Still feels pretty fucking weak. Flowers wilt. _Flowers_ die. Lullabies don’t.

_Take little Sadie to her burial ground. Just take her, gents and gamblers_

Dolls stay, preserved and beautiful with bright blue eyes _not half-alive grey_ that shut when they lay down, eyes that know when to close and Tweek’s sure he’s not one of them. He can’t be, his pupils expand, try to take in more when they should stay tied and

“It’s over. We’re safe.” Clyde taps at his wrist, _harsh_ , until rashes grow rosey. Until Tweek can’t feel that sharp tooth, the saliva song of the past and it’s impulsive.

It’s such a human flaw that makes his eyes leak, isn’t it?

“I’m f-fucking crazy. I’m fucking c-crazy. Tell me I’m, I, you w-were right, I’m,” Tweek mumbles hoarse, unaware that he’s repeated this for the last half hour. “Batshit, I'm b-batshit, they were all right. Holy fuck, C-Clyde, th-they were right, they were right.” Clyde just nods.

“Maybe,” Clyde doesn’t stop the rap tap tapping on his wrist and it’s absent now, like he needs this almost _more_ than Tweek does, like he needs to be reminded of where he is and reality is a shifting thing. “Maybe it’ll all be okay.”

“I, I,” Tweek looks stumped, he looks a mess. Like he’s missed half of his life and he’s only eighteen. How can you misplace that much of your time when you’re this young? “I, I don’t know.”

“Wanna know the worst part about all this is?” Tweek blinks, red-rimmed slowly and staring out at the blue sky. Looks ineffective, looks _defective_ and more than dejected. “I don’t know who to fight.” Clyde nods soundlessly. Tweek slumps further into the dirt. “I know it hurts,” Clyde clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to think about this, he doesn’t want to seizure, scary as fuck, like Tweek very nearly just did. He doesn’t want to feel so vulnerable again. “It hurts.” Tweek stares, vacant.

“Why’d you h-have to,” Tweek begins to ask, roughly wiping at his face. “To leave?” Clyde thinks about this for a while, unsure of what to say.

“I was only ten. Can’t say you wouldn’t have run.”

“I r-remember,” Wide-eyed, the tears continue to fall in an absent stream. “I remember ten. I remember being _alone a-and_ I wasn’t a-alone, I wasn’t and you l-let them,” Tweek continues on. “You let th-them and I c-couldn’t. B-big river.” Clyde rubs his hands over his face, sighing. Tweek looks so vulnerable and Clyde bets he hates the feeling.

“It won't hurt forever," Clyde lies, sore. "You block things out after a while.”

“I, I guess I’m g-good at that.”

"What?"

“M-my imagination,” Tweek starts with beaten up lips and a sore tone to his voice. He’s letting his face drench as he chokes out a sob. He sniffs. “My _imagination’s_ s-solid steel. Bulletproof and, a-and everything.”

“Yeah, you did always come up with the best games.”

“I,” Tweek says, slowly. “I,” Tweek adds, with a low rumble and a cracking voice. “I’m s-sorry, I’m so f-fucking sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I, I, I’m just sorry.” Tweek croaks a little. “Y-yeah, _fuck, this h-hurts._ No w-wonder you hate me, no wonder,” Tweek nods to himself, sniffing. “Yeah, I, I’m nuts,” Tweek says, with a broken sob. They’re not the kind of tears that take over. No, they’re the kind that you don’t notice until you get up closer, or give a longer look. Tweek wipes at them aggressively. He snuffles, staring intense at Clyde. “Walk m-me through it.”

“Walk you through it? No way, Tweek, _no_. So you can replay it over and over again? Nope.”

“Tell me they’re dead, a-at least.”

“Uh huh,” Clyde starts slowly. He has trouble holding his hand evenly so he sets it on his leg. “Yeah, they’re dead.”

“Dragon man, too?” Tweek mutters. Clyde nods.

“Yeah,” Tweek coughs a little at that. “ _Him_ , too.” Clyde adds, uncomfortably.

“I’m,” Tweek looks very distraught, staring straight into the setting sun. “I feel like I’m s-still there. T-tell me I’m not, tell me I can l-leave. I wasn’t b-bad, tell me I can fucking leave, and _goddammit, d-don’t_ touch me, don’t fucking touch me, Clyde!”

“I’m not touchin----”

“Don’t, d-don’t fucking do it.”

“I’m not touching you, mania----”

“Leave me the fuck a-alone, leave me alone. I need to go, I need to go to mars, just,” Tweek blinks. “Let me b-believe in mars again.”

“It’s not healthy.”

“Oh, f-fuck you, fuck you, man, _nothing_ a-about this was h-healthy. Wh-what do you know? Y-you," Tweek grimaces. "Y-you left b-before," Tweek mutters. "You l-left before th-they and, and I _p-puked_ ,” Tweek whispers, remembering. “I th-think, think I’m go---” There’s a retching sound that swallows up Tweek’s words. He’s not even sure what was in there to begin with, what’s even left? “I w-wish we _had_ flown t-to the moon.” He sniffs. He wipes at his mouth and feels dirty.

“What are you talking about? We did.”

“D-don’t confuse m-me anymore. Don’t do that.” Red eyed and lolling.

“Tweek, we did. We went to the moon. That’s all it was,” Clyde shoves dirt in his fingernails, thinks it would be nice to shove a fistfull of it in one of _their_ mouths but they’re already eating earth now, deep in the ground. In some casket to protect their bones that turned into weapons fast. “That’s what it was called. The Moon Room.” The words taste vile in Clyde's mouth.

“We never came b-back.”

“No,” Clyde shakes his head, finding the shaking difficult to stop, the shattering teeth won’t either. “We came back too late.”

“W-we never came back. H-how could anyone s-survive that?”

“We've done it. We made it home. Isn’t that the most important part?”

“I dreamt I’d die on the ground, I’d die b-before I hugged the sky, b-before I got close to it.”

"That sounds like a nightmare."  
  
"Th-this," Tweek's hands dig into the soil, holding onto fistfulls of grass clinging roots and dirt. "This is the nightmare. Wake me up."

"I just did." Clyde responds plainly, in the only way he can. Tweek makes no noise as he lies back, curls his body until he's nothing but a tooth-obsessed gap, until he's nothing but the major gap that runs through his memories, that makes him forget about the October he lost four hours.

In four hours, that purple neon woman kicked three thousand and six hundred times and Tweek feels now how tired she must have been.

In four hours, Tweek won't kick until he's alone, all alone. But Tweek needs to be alone, he needs to fly away from his irregular breathing from Clyde's looming prescence of the past  _no wonder dumb incompetent crazy Tweek got the knife no wonder he got the lies_ They won't hurt you if you're good  _but how can anything good exist in so much vile filth how can anything grow in filth and_ Tweek needs to fly away 

To mars, to home. 


	23. Thursday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoaaaaa guys it's been so nutty. i lost my power for a while in the storm, ran into writer's block, had a bunch of exams aaaaaaaand now we're here so sorry for the very late chapter but there's some kenny in it so that should make things okay right? actually this chapter is also kind of heavy, but it's not like the last one soooo. 
> 
> i don't want to drag this story on, i don't want to force it to be something it's not so if you guys seriously have any suggestions, concerns, comments, whatever, please totally let me know! even if it's like to quit it lol. i am so trying to finish this story up and your comments really do help me move things along and post new chapters. 
> 
> it'd be awesome if you enjoy this story and want more chapters (or even if you don't too that's fine!), if you let me know what parts you want me to expand on or what parts you want more of? 
> 
> also, if you've commented and i haven't gotten back to you yet, i will totally be doing that tomorrow! i have not forgotten anyone, i've just been so busy and i really appreciate all the feedback...zoe, if you're reading, i'm gonna write back to you too tomorrow! :3
> 
> thanks dudes, i love you all so much! <3 damn sorry this note is longgggg.
> 
> oh! dudes! here's the long-awaited classical music playlist (not really lol but it's what i kinda feel like is on tweek's first tape): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZzXyFMh-kQ&list=PLElXC8DYJhC6EngUOFGGt9bIvYEo1Gyu0

_Hey, what’s up with you, pussy cat?_

“Ngh, st-stop with th-the nicknames.”

 _You’re leaving?_ Tweek pauses rustling through his bag, looking over at the flickering gold candle sitting innocently by the pew, melted to the ground. Stuck and rooted. 

“Y-yeah.”

_Why?_

“Because I n-need to find something.”

 _Tweek, my lad, take no offense here but you’re an idiot. You can’t just_  run _._   _You can't find it. Once they take it, it doesn't co----_

“---f-fuck off, man," Tweek spits. "You don’t understand. E-everything’s so rusty here.”

_Oh, I know. I know what it’s like, baby, I know rust._

“Don’t call m-me that. I'm n-not anyone's _anything_. I d-don't belong to anyone.”

_That's bullshit. What about your family, huh? Everyone belongs to someone._

"Would y-you just leave me the fuck alone? Please?"

_You never talk to us ghosts in the daylight._

“Don’t w-want people to see me crazy. Doesn't matter a-anymore. Th-they were right.”

 _Wanna hear a riddle?_ Tweek runs his hands along his bag, tightens the string holding it shut until the fabric looks ready to scream. 

“I don’t l-like puzzles.” He mutters. 

_Just this one._

"I don't  _l-like_ riddles."

_I know that's a lie._

"I don't." Tweek begins, realizing  _yeah._ Yeah, he does, yeah, he  _does_ lie. He's told so many lies, and they've played so many tricks in his head. 

_What was that, Tweeky? You don't lie?_

"I d-didn't meant to." Tweek says hollowly. 

_Yeah, I know. It was an accident. So let me help._

"H-how?" Tweek scoffs lightly, slumping against his bag. 

_Listen to this riddle. Come on. It'll help your head. Brain food, Tweeker._

"No." Tweek says, frowning. He doesn't bother telling Kenny not to call him a tweeker because, well, what's the point? Tweek should just accept it, accept what he is, what he was, accept the label and continue on. 

 _I never was, am always to be._ Kenny's voice recites, lacking the playfulness it usually has. Tweek digs his nails deep into his sides.

“Why is e-everyone so e-entitled? H-how come they f-force their f-fucking, their fucking _fists and_  I d-don’t g-get any say? Shut up, Kenny, I don't want to hear your s-stupid riddle.”

 _No one ever saw me nor ever will._ Kenny continues.

“I don’t _want_ to be cryptic, I, I wanna be, I wanna b-be understood, c-can't you help me be understood?” Tweek grits his teeth out.

 _And yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball._ Kenny says so very confidently that Tweek feels like mother time is maybe running beside him. Tweek shakes his head. 

“Will you just shut the hell up before I b-break this candle in two and, a-and pour salt o-over everything I own?”

 _What am I?_ Kenny asks, after a beat.  _What am I, Tweek?_

"I don't know, Kenny, I don't _know._  I w-wasn't really listening."

 _You_   _so were_. _You know the answer anyway. You've known it for years._

"Wh-what? Why?" Tweek frowns. He shifts uncomfortably, pulls at his shoulders, tucks both hands in around his neck and hugs himself. "Did you know? D-did you know b-before I did?" He presses crescent moon fingernails into his neck. "You knew, y-you knew and you, you still let me," Tweek seethes. "You l-let me  _lie to myself and,_ and you let me b-buy it and  _him,_ too, you let him believe m-me?" 

_Hey, calm down._

"Calm d-down? Calm  _down?"_   Tweek rocks in his seat, feels the hair on his arms against his face. _"_ H-how the fuck is th-this fair? How is any of th-this fair? You can't just prod into m-my h-head. It's n-not, this s-supossed to be  _m-mine_ and, and you c-can't take it first, th-that's not fair, th-that's not fair at all." 

_Tweek. No one saw me nor ever will._

"Oh, g-goddamn, Kenny! Fuck off!" 

_I never was, am always to be._

"You obviously c-can hear me so r-read my fucking mind and g-get the hell out!" 

_And yet I am the confidence of all, to live and breathe on this terrestrial ball._

“You're tomorrow," Tweek sighs. He stuffs his bag up. "Just t-tomorrow." Tweek frowns when the candle flashes wildly at nothing, freezes when he doesn't even remember who he was talking to. _Was_ he even talking to anyone? Is he  _legitimately_ hearing things now, too, just like they said? 

He blows out the candle and walks away from it.

For the first time since he ran knee high, Tweek kneels at the pew and prays. He prays to an empty church with sunlight streaming in its' uninsulated cracks.

Tweek prays for a lullaby, some quiet voice, some easy note to tell him how simple life can be when the threat's supposed to be gone. The threat was never supposed to be larger than a goose chase, anyway, something that couldn't possibly be real but the kids always beat it, didn't they? They beat it in some maddeningly sweetness that churned at the underside of Tweek's ribs until it sowed hope. 

Tweek's eyes are fossil gray and right now, he would like to pray. 

_What regulates the sunrise? Is it dawn to wake, dusk to fall or could it have been the other way? Does time run fluently, in badly cut loops and does the forest always awe you? Is it that lively, healthy and loving green, too, when you picture it or orange sharp leaves, blackened moon and sunk stones?_

_What causes tension to retreat? Did mama ever waltz? How about papa? Do you remember it? Do you remember the way we used to watch them? Could you show me? Would you tell me?_

Amen? Did it even count as a prayer?

“Wh-what happens when the dawn is over,”  _is it over when you wake?_ “The fawn has died and the wound still won’t heal?” Pray for God to be real, Tweek guesses and that's what he half attempts, feeling obligated to the holy landmark of a cross staring him down. Judging him. Calling him sinful. Toxic and so fucking unclean. His wrist is digging up raw again and in a misfired attempt at walking out of October's gnawing teeth, Tweek presses his knees together. He tenses everything, rigid and stiff like a dead, dead body. Yeah, that's a good role model, isn't it? Dead body?

_No, that's not funny, Tweek, you're not funny._

He sits silently, unnaturally still and feels his knees could carve into the wood the longer he waits for something to happen.

He's bent, isn't he? Isn't this his fault, couldn't he have stopped them? Well, come on, didn't he know what was going to happen? They were so nice at first, though, they were papa's friends and Mars Bars were his favorite. It was too cold for the swing anyway, too cold for two little kids who didn't know summer's static ran thick on tire treads through pinecones and all the places they used to walk alone, they were never alone and they're still lonely, lonely places that don't grow _, and_  Tweek can't stop the storm from coming, he can't control anything with the way his hands move like two left feet, like a jumping jazz song  _it's uncontrollable_ , when the storm faces his eyes and

Tweek doesn't know why it happened. 

Tweek doesn't know why it happened, if his dad  _really_ bet them off for a lousy fifty thousand or if they ran stop signs and bribed Clyde and Tweek with candy and it was all dumb Tweek's fault because he  _knew them shit that's right he told Clyde it was okay it was okay itwasokayit'sokaythey're papa's friends._ It's okay, it was supposed to be okay.

He's mad at his head, his fucked up head for twisting something into a reality  _but didn't he know when he saw their hands humanoid no no_ human. 

They were humans. They all had their own papa, their own mama to exist on this earth in the skin they were birthed in, in the skin that _twisted his mandible_ and they all had their own childhood. Maybe they sparked candles, too. Maybe they ran into the rivers like Clyde and Token, and got yelled at like Craig. Maybe they had friends, maybe they were the only friend they had. Maybe Tweek should stop humanizing them when they were so inhumane and alien-clawed and 

They held nothing to mars, anyway, but they felt around for a long four hours, those four hours gaped, spun life on a timeless, uncontrollable loop. Tweek wished he was watching his mother's record player spin instead because it's a coda that Tweek can't stop thinking about, can't stop tensing his knees and feeling it in his ankles.

 _Human._ They  _were_ humans and they loved, fought, hated, ran fraudulent bank accounts, sent money to the islands, and had irises. They weren't eyeless, they weren't even lidless. They blinked. They blinked, just like the collected way Token does, just like puppy-dog Clyde.

Just like Tweek's jade, electric green-eyed space cadet, his comrade his friend his good months can't blink like them he can't want what they did _doesn't he_ he can't do the same thing to Tweek and  _he wouldn't he wouldn't_ but what if he did? Gotta be human, right? He _blinks_ , at least, not like them but what'd stop him, if the qualificatory is human, if that's all it takes, what would push him to that step down that steep windy cliffside, down into the ocean and what if he _did_  and they were human, how long until that green-eyed cricket steals more than air, seconds from Tweek's time devoted to the intricities of domestic policies, of domestic abuse  _shit no wonder he cares_ , his brain capacity has been overtaken by that beautiful month, and how long until that jade-eyed comrade takes more than is his until he forgets about mars, until he ditches mars and ditches Tweek's body in a crackhouse  _like how it happened don't walk like you're hurt you can't walk like you're hurt_

 _No._ Those good months are  _good_ for a reason. Crickets just sing at homecoming, welcoming in the evening, calling the dawn to rest and rust. Space cadets don't care about any of that stuff; they just blank out in history staring at the back of your head but they never steal anything  _besides lungs when they help out the sullied,_  Tweek's very sullied, does he know? Does cricket know how much? Has Clyde let on that he's also not part of _the unsullied,_  and would cricket, wounded cricket himself, would he stillpick up anxious moths, coddle them til they were strong and let things fly, content enough to watch them fly?

Good months let you fly, that's why they're good.  

Tweek prays, weirdly enough, he _actually_ prays to something he's sure doesn't exist. Maybe it's just a muscle reflex from when he sat with Clyde those few times here years ago. Clyde's dad used to pray that he had the strength to move on after his wife's death and Tweek mouthed along, even though he was confused. Grown ups sure do play weird games, Tweek had thought that day, because he was making eye contact with Clyde's mother. She was kneeling in the aisle next to them. She looked sad with almond brown eyes and lashes that Clyde inherited, never lost all these years. Clyde still gets his mother's sadness. 

Tweek prays for the strength, still water not in his mouth, unzipped teeth chattering, and there's no response. Of course there's nothing, never any answers in the uneven summer. Only actions. Tweek's stuck in a cycle because there's nothing in the windy winter, either, besides questions, _endless questions_ left open-ended over citronella candles. 

Tweek's toes are teetering only to the lonely call of freight trains. His mouth doesn't gape anymore and he realizes he's never going to have any answer. 

He's never going to know the reason they plucked him up, he's never going to know how his dead parents left him alone those years, why the connection's so lousy, why Clyde has forgiven him  _because Tweek did bring the monsters Tweek did_ _ring his hands in the dirt and he called on the monsters with his alarming hair he stuck out like a sore thumb like a stop sign like an alert an amber alert_

Tweek will  _never_ understand how, he will never know what curses run through is his defective body in manic shocks, and it hurts. But the golden-boy, the  _wonder boy_  he is _,_  will always wonder _._  

Tweek traces the wood of the pew while the truth patiently waits with him. 

Four hours, four hours, and he draws his deck out of the left pocket of his parka.

He ties his bag tight as it goes, knotting it for the fifth time in a row, tucks the thing under a pew. With the always present twitching fingers, Tweek ejects the tape in his cassette player. He tries to get ahold of a plan that he can follow, a hand that won't burn him, won't scorch his body with matches and, besides, _good months_ let all the moths fly unscathed, right? 

* * *

Up, up and far away.

That bluejay kite flies higher than smoke drifts from a campfire, to storm-ready clouds. Token thinks a blue sky, backed by oaks, would’ve been a nice sight to see. Instead, the mud is tar, the sky’s set in a deep, mournful grimace, and Token, all senses and well-balanced, thins the leaves lining the bay with the nylon thread. Back and forth, over and out.

Up, up and so very far away. At least, that's the goal. 

It’s Thursday afternoon.

It’s Thursday afternoon and Token’s been lucky. Wendy still walks like a winding backroad, still rages spit, and tastes like fruity chewing gum. Token will have to ask her what kind she chews, if they get to talking. It's something close to bubblegum, close to bananas, too, and goddamn, if he didn't hate bananas so much. 

But it's Thursday afternoon and they agreed to wait until graduation was over. Or, Wendy agreed to it and Token didn't really argue. 

The kite, though, the kite that looks like a bluejay is arguing a whole lot in Token's hands and Token can be stubborn. He can’t figure out how the damn thing flies, why it's so fucking spastic. Craig’s way better at this shit, at getting things to fly, but Craig’s not doing much of anything helpful at the moment. He’s sitting back far on the grass, and only breathing, Token supposes.  

It’s spring, it’s warm, and Craig should be close to beaming about the start of summer. About the end of High School, the start of all those weevils and worms poking their heads out of the soil.

Soil’s in his best friend’s soul, usually. Cocoons that have hibernated in his lungs, preening themselves once they open at the end of June. Usually. Now, Craig's raw, purple-eyed and looking damn tired under the ratty old chullo hat soothing his presumed headache. It's _warm_ , why can't Craig let go of the fucking safety blanket for a second? 

Token’s finding it difficult to talk to the guy.  

Token spins the kite string once more, yanking at the nylon and trying to get it to fly with a flick of his wrist. Token rolls his eyes dramatically when it does nothing but fall pathetically on the ground. 

“Dude,” Token exclaims, exasperated. “ _Weak_.” He moans.  

“Mhm.” Craig does little more than grunt. Token eyes him, observing the thin line his mouth’s in. Craig’s eyes are ill-focused.

“This is supposed to be our tradition.” Craig raises an eyebrow.

“You _hate_ flying kites.”

“Nawh, no. I don’t.”

“ _I_ hate flying kites.”

“No, you don’t,” Token says calmly although, he’s internally panicked. Why the hell did he bring this old as fuck kite out if neither of them give a shit? “You like this. It’s about time we all got out and enjoyed ourselves. You’ll have fun. You will.” _Right_? This is fun. This is supposed to be fun, this is how people have fun. Token kind of lies to himself, but he’s a good liar. Usually.

“Shit, dad, I don’t want to fly a fucking kite.” Craig remarks mellowly. Token scoffs.

“Wait ‘til your mother hears that foul language.”

“You know he’d agree with me. Clyde hates kites.” Token frowns and tosses the spool of nylon on the ground, releasing the kite. The wind tugs it along the grass the length of a foot, before it settles to a dancing stop. Token scowls at it and Craig near loses the distant look. 

“I don’t know why I bother.” Token huffs loudly, falling to the ground, next to a sitting Craig. Token begins pinching his forehead.

“Yeah,” Craig agrees. “No one likes kites.” Craig adds, lightly kicking the kite’s spool with his foot.

“I thought _you_ did. You flew this one, didn't you?”

“I was twelve and it was the last time I've gone near a kite, 'til today.”

“Whoops. Guess I fucked up.”

“What were you trying to do anyway?”

“Dunno, thought we could all use a break together before graduation.”

“The fuck, Toke, really,” Craig states, flatly. “Kite flying? Did you make a picnic basket up, too?” Token looks around.

“Sure did, sport. There’s leaves and shit over there. That’s what you eat nowadays, isn’t it?”

“Hey, fuck you.” Craig says, with no malice.

“Dunno why you’re so keen on that lately, but once again, I must decline. You just don’t cut it for me sexually.”  

“Oh, goddammit, Token.”

"How are you holding up?"

"What do you mean?" Craig asks, plying dirt up with a stick.

"I just mean with everything. I feel like it's been a long time since I've seen you."

"Just busy." Craig shrugs.

"With what?"

"Stuff." 

"Helpful."

"I don't know. It's just the same old boring shit."

"Same old boring shit I used to know about, though." 

"Yeah." Craig agrees, soberly and quietly. 

"Why are you being so damn weird?" Craig looks mildly perplexed.

"Am I?"

"Fuck yeah, you're nearing batshit," Token begins. "Clyde said you jumped in the river."

"So?"

"Nothing," Token relents. "Nothing." Token brought the old as fuck kite that looks like a blue jay, but won’t sing or fly nearly as gracefully as one. Token actually made it to meet Craig when he said he would. Craig was the late one. 

It was odd waiting alone. Token recalls twenty minutes ago, standing in the grass, feeling a bit unneeded with no one around. The briefness of life drifted in at Token, and he thought about these few mellow last days of school where he's clicked his locker shut, all alone in the hallways. How slowly he sauntered to English yesterday. He’s been wistful, reminiscing about all the shit he managed pull off, semi-impressed he’s still getting a diploma. Winked at Wendy and she did nothing more than stare at him, before he made it to the bleachers after school, and he tasted some of that fruity gum she smells so strongly of.

Life’s an ever-changing, drawn out, and damn-spanking wonderful mess.

Neighborhoods change fast. Houses _burn, burn, burn_ , catch flames and entrap flies. Isn’t that what happened eight years ago, to Craig’s backyard? It caught on fire and that old pine tree got scorched.

That was some eventful day. The Pine Tree Fire is a well-told tidbit in Craig’s family, the moral always being that Craig’s just a dumbass who sets fires without thinking about what happens to everything flames lick. Craig did set the fire, Token remembers, with ‘that crazy little shit’, as Craig’s dad only calls Tweek. Token still can't think of Tweek as crazy, though, even with his boney thumbs and lack of social skills. Token still sees him as a coconspirator, a spinner of webs and stories. Tweek told _the_ best stories. His imagination was golden. 

Token eyes Craig once more, who's managed to make a nice little hole in the ground. 

"If you keep digging, maybe you'll get to China." Token remarks. Craig stops. 

"Maybe," He says, quietly. "Maybe I'll have a place to sleep tonight." 

"Wanna spend the night at mine? You can have the couch. Clyde doesn't have to know." 

"I was kidding. Sort of. Keep it open for bozo." 

"Where _is_ Clyde?"

"How should I know? You invited us here."

"Yeah, good thing I did, dick, before you forget how to talk to humans."

"I talk to humans." Craig's knee-jerk response is. Token raises an eyebrow and scoffs.

"Best way to prove that you're human." Craig barely flips Token off. He just kinda stays where he sitting, doesn't even turn to glare, and just lazily tosses his middle finger in the direction where he thinks Token could be. "How's Ruby? I barely see her." 

"Fine." Craig grunts. The frustration builds inside Token until he just throws his hands aside and gives up prying. 

"Are you building a brick wall or something? Is that why you're too busy for us?"

"What?"

"I never see you anymore."

"Hey, these are how things are gonna be, Toke."

"That's dumb. Is that what you're doing? We're not even going to college that far from each other. That's so fucking dumb, man."

"Nope." Craig pops the  _p_ sound, like he usually does. Token nudges the spool of kite thread. Craig’s stern, cold, and his green eyes look about as lifeless as Token's mom’s begonia plant in their basement. 

"Wanna try to fly again?"

"Fuck  _that_ , no way."

There's a campfire in the distance. Token remembers the scent, the way that Tweek smelled eight years ago. That day was full of smoke. Before it outran the day before it, before the rain came, before they took Tweek away for the first time, everything smelled like friendly bonfires.

Token was running through a stream with Clyde that day, that day when Tweek and Craig burned down those pines. Clyde had a big bandage on his hand, and Token asked what happened. Clyde was always getting hurt, and he cried crocodile tears while he proudly showed off his scars. He loved getting sympathy from all the girls.

 _Aww, poor Clyde!_ And they left often flower stickers on his cast, smiling. The girls weren't around that day. That day, they were catching crawdads, like they usually did on sunny, homework-less afternoons. Token looked over Clyde once and asked what happened. He interrogated. 

_Did ya jump off the roof again?_

_Fall down running your skateboard through the oaks?_

_Believe you’d figured out teleportation, transportation, and portals?_

_Did you try to slay the “beast” and get carried away when you picked up Kitty?_

Clyde wouldn’t say. Token pestered, because Clyde’s injury stories were usually the _greatest._ Once, Clyde broke his ankle because he built some cardboard jetpacks, believed that he could jump from the tree Kitty wouldn’t even climb, and shoot off to the sky. Like some cartoon character Clyde thought was really rad, apparently.

Everyone signed that cast, the jetpack one, and Clyde showed it off happily. Even while Craig called him an idiot, he wrote on it, too: _Hope you had a good trip see you in the fall_

Clyde had cried briefly, thinking Craig wasn’t going to see him the whole summer, because he hated him or something. Tweek had to explain the _‘joke’_ to Clyde, to calm him down, and yeah, Token thinks they were like a clan back then.

They had a _handshake_ , even, the secret kind that kids only know. Token guesses he's lucky to have so many happy memories.

Back then, Clyde’s great injury stories reminded Token of why he was such good friends with the kid. Clyde was always willing to try the dumbest things, and that stupidity, albeit extreme at times, gave Token a faith in the impossible. Craig and Tweek were _always_ so invested in the impossible. Ghosts, aliens, whatever the fuck they did do together, they were in love with the game. Tweek even told Token he could talk to Token’s great-aunt Alba, who had passed on when he was four. Token didn’t believe that in the slightest but it still comforted him. Tweek said she smelled like cardamom, like pecans, too, and she sounded like syrup. 

Cloves, Token thinks it's weird that Tweek guessed so closely to what she actually smelled like. She smelled like cloves. 

Craig and Tweek looked so damn happy playing their little games in that old, spooky as fuck cemetery, and Token just wanted something to believe in like that.

So when Clyde told him that day, standing knee-high in a river that boasted floating specks of dirt in sunlight, covered in mud, and sporting a hugeass bandage, that nothing was wrong, Token didn’t believe him. When Clyde stood there, orange Caribou Joe t-shirt seeping water, looking regretful, that nothing happened, Token didn’t buy it. Token pestered until Clyde grew so frustrated that he shoved Token onto the bay, and told him something that Token still thinks of to this day:

_Good boys don’t ask questions._

Token dropped it. Soon enough, the excitement of crawdads caught up to him, and they went on naming those crawdads. There’s Jay, and Susie, Sally and even _Domino_ the crawdad. Token would’ve kept them, if his parents had let him be a kid. If his parents let him, for the briefest of moments, stay mud-drenched on those sunny end of summer afternoons, gathering crawdads, and likening to the idea of the impossible, of the beyond.

Today, Clyde and him don’t catch crawdads anymore. They swap stories of escapades, grin dumbly at each other with huge packs of “borrowed” beer, play football til their knees are bloody and their muscles rip. Clyde’s injuries are more believable, and life without magic goes on, as Token was taught it would.

No surprises.

Today, the three of them are going to fly this goddamn kite, make all the bluejays swoon, even if Token has to die trying.  

"Are you mad at me?" Token blurts, watching Craig lean back. Craig shakes his head. 

"No," Craig states calmly, pensive. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you've been a right little bitch to me lately."

"How so?" Well, this is all wrong. Craig's not even retorting anymore, he's not being snappy. 

"You won't talk on the bus anymore, you won't come drink."

"Just because I want to keep my brain cells doesn't mean I'm a bitch."

"Don't you miss talking to us?"

"Hey, I talk."

"Prove it. Spill the beans, Craig." Craig cringes, making an uncomfortable face.

"About what?" Craig asks, shifting.

 _Token_ has even read a few books. Thrillers, mysteries with these spectacularly long fingers that dive deep into the backside of esophaguses are his favorite. The worst part, the itching part about mysteries _is_ the unknown. It’s something that you can’t grab at until the book is near over. The journey becomes fraught with rumors, with scars, and shit that kids his age aren’t equipped to deal with. At this point in Token’s life, those books are just cheap thrills. He knows how they’ll turn out, he can spot the killer in the first chapter but the way it’s written, the tongue of a word is something Token can’t escape. It’s exhilarating, even though he knows how they all end.

Token’s aware of how they all end, as he eyes Craig’s still face, his clenching pocketed fists in that blue sweatshirt he knows too well.

"How's Tweek?" Token settles with.

"How should I know? I'm not his babysitter." 

"Okay, dick," Token scoffs. " _Well_ ," Token begins. "Have you talked nerdy to him yet?" 

"Token." Craig warns. 

"What? Oh, come on, it's only fair. I get to hear about  _Clyde's_ escapades." 

"Hey, you used that word properly."

"Wendy's a wonderful teacher." Token says grinning. 

"Um, yeah, I heard. Good for you, man." 

"Shut up, I know you don't care." Token says with no hurt. 

"If you know that, why do you care about what I say to Tweek?"

"'Cause. I want you to be happy, sport." 

"You're a," Craig shifts his mouth to a tight line, attempts a smile but Token knows that's all it is; an attempt. He sighs. "You know you're a good friend, right, Toke? So don't take it personally. I just don't want to talk."

Token's phone buzzes. Clyde’s on his way, alone. It looks like something got patched over between the Craig and him, somehow, and Token’s glad. Token wishes, as the sun fails to hit his face, as the air feigns hospitality and threatens rain, that he knew what went down in the first place. In the end, he understands that if no one will tell him, it’s not his job to push it. It’s not his story to tell. It’s not his secret to keep. Token just has to be okay with it.

After fifteen years of friendship, of Token _thinking_ he understands his best friends like the back of his hand, like a map of their neighborhood, they're both turning out to be mysteries. _R_ _eal_ mysteries, too, ones that don't have many clues or answers, not like all those damn fictions the grocery store’s stocked with.

Hands, Token thinks as he sweeps the dirt leaf fragments onto his jeans, probably aren’t so easy to know either. They collect scars and bruises, fake tattoos, real ones and the slurry phone numbers of drunk girls while you stand drunker. Hands collect scrapes and burns, little silver star stickers, grocery lists and UNDER 21 stamps when your fake I.D. doesn’t impress the person it’s meant to.

Token drives his own hands to the bridge of his nose, massaging the frustration he's feeling into something else, something related to productivity. 

"Okay," Token agrees, nodding into his hand. "Guess you don't have to talk."

"Cool." Craig states simply, seeming content to let the silence eat them and  _maybe_ , maybe Craig's always been this way. Maybe Token's only noticing it now because Craig doesn't bother to share his bug facts anymore. Maybe Token shouldn't have shut him down all those years because, well, why _would_ he wanna talk if no one wants to hear what he has to say? Fuck. Shit, is Token a crappy friend? Token misses Clyde's incessant chatter.  _That's_ what fills the silence Craig leaves, Clyde talks enough for two people.

They're graduating soon enough, in two whole days, Wendy's his _maybe-_ girlfriend, so Token should feel pretty happy as he sits and waits for the sky to rain. As he sits, waits for Clyde to show up. As he sits, unwilling to let go of the rift between them all, still feeling old enough to move on. 


	24. Two Fridays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus fucking christ my dudes this chapter holy hell i'm dying  
> sorry for the wait! i've had so much work to do as always. but, i am having some kind of writer's block with this guy too and it kind of eats away at me some days. not too sure about the next direction (ugh the ending i wrote a while back doesn't seem to fit anymore) so if you guys have any suggestions, that's so unbelievably helpful. thanks dudes! ilysm!!! <3
> 
> p.s. tried to edit but i'm sure it still comes off as though i was drunk and confused, which is only half accurate. the less fun half tho :/

**i.**

In the fall, nearing the end of one balmy October, Craig lost his bird of hope.

He watched flies go  _splat_ against the windshield of his dad's shit Chevy. The bugs were these wondrous things with wings for the getaway, but even they couldn't avoid the fury of Craig's parents. No one’s really safe, and ground control can’t do shit when Craig's alone in the backseat. Ground control can't do a goddamn thing when ground control quit, when ground control moved away _without saying goodbye_ , and left Craig with nothing but burned trees and a handful of fuzzy memories.

Their summers guzzled down dreams, held innocence in a delicate balance, and Craig felt like they lasted for eons.

Tweek chose to be ground control. He said he liked the word.  _Control._ Control. It was something he lacked, when he twitched too frequently, shouted when he meant to be quiet. Tweek was drawn to the idea that he could master something.  _Tweek needs more self-control_. That's what his little report card showed in the comments, a bubbly cursive that Tweek mulled over on the stoops of Craig's house. He mulled over it when they biked down to the river. He mulled over it when he turned his apple, when he took a bite at snack time, at recess while the tetherball flew past him. It didn't seem to matter that the rest of the note said Tweek was a sweet kid, or that he tried to be helpful.

Craig's report card read that he was severely disengaged, and his teacher was concerned. The handwriting was just as bubbly. 

So the commands, the imaginative storytelling that spread like fine ivy was just how Tweek _had_  to live. He  _held_ the power in the pen of his hand, and even when it shot tremors, the words rose could still live on their own. They were self-help guides with spacemen, knights and aliens. They were only puzzles to a world that never bothered to understand him. In stories, kids could  _face_ monsters, face October, and they'd _always_ be brave.

They'd be brave, and spit at the dragon's feet. 

Craig preferred his company that way. Tweek did all the thinking for them, all the entertaining, and Craig just added a few things when the time seemed appropriate to talk. Tweek would whisper-shout at all the dangerous things Craig needed to avoid. Craig felt something spark his pulse.

Maybe Tweek _did_ have magic. To this day, Craig knows that he has never felt gravity's absence so strongly than when Tweek entranced him in those whispers.

_For mars, to home._

Ground control was supposed to stay on the ground, but Tweek always broke that rule if he perceived a threat. Craig let him. With a best friend _,_ a _true_ friend, life runs a little easier.

It's all a little faster, a little more precious. 

It was whole when Tweek walked by his side, even though the other kids called him weird, crazy, or even dumb. Craig didn’t care. Tweek wasn't dumb in the slightest. He just had more important things to be doing than holding still in science. He was weird, sure, but his eccentricities were the things that made him the coolest kid Craig knew.

Besides, no one else had Craig's back the way Tweek did, no way.

Most of those late summer afternoons, they saved their toothy grins for each other. They played all sorts of games until the sun started to get drowsy.

The monsters dug their claws deep. The wolves fought each other before they feasted on children.

Tweek aimed for ignorance and Craig wished he tasted bliss while they played five card stud in the comely cemetery, their own tiny universe. Just the two of them, cocooned by Tweek's ghosts.

It didn’t matter that Craig never saw the monsters. All he needed to do was see the blankness in Tweek’s eyes to know the hurt was very real. Craig knew a similar kind of hurt, even if it wasn't caused by aliens. It didn’t matter that Craig never _heard_ the ghosts. He never heard Token’s aunt Alba the way Tweek swore he did, never saw Clyde’s dead mother staring at him from the pews, and Craig didn't need to.

Craig didn't need to see anything other than the galaxies that moved across Tweek's face when he cringed to believe. 

Tweek was sure the monsters were there, and he never ran from them. He didn’t ditch Craig. He went straight for the fire, and dove in like a scrappy, but never unwanted, knight in shining armor.

Tweek was learning piano in their last autumn. He only knew a handful dirty folk songs and the beginning of _Maple Leaf Rag_ , but Craig could've listened to him sing them poorly for hours. Tweek wouldn't let Craig just stand there and do nothing, though. He never did. He'd coax Craig to join in until they both went out of tune, awfully vulgar, after school in their old music room. The sunlight shone through. Craig could've waited through the darkness with Tweek, and Tweek would've watched over them. They had that song to guide them, the choppy piano to keep them in some kind of time, and they were bound in glue to the games they lived. 

And outside, when the school closed, they ran to five card stud. They ran for mars, to a home that had no walls.

The sun had to sink every evening. It was a cycle, and Craig knew he had to leave the second his breath chilled in the air. Tweek pinky swore that it wasn’t just a game. Tweek pinky swore he would be ground control, _always_ , he would always tell Craig when he was running on dangerous oxygen levels, where all the perils roamed. Craig had a sinking feeling Tweek _knew_ Craig didn't fall out of a tree trying to spot a beehive. He had a boney feeling Tweek knew, when all Tweek would do was nudge Craig’s shoulder and offer to walk him home. Craig didn't want that. Craig didn't want anyone over after dark, Tweek least of all. 

So Craig would tell Tweek that the universe was _so_ big, there was no way that anyone could keep what Tweek promised.

Craig would continue down that road to his house alone with only the slivered moon to look forward to. 

How to _hide_. Tweek knew that too well. He was fucking impressive at hiding. He'd spot the slightest words and tones. It's how he stayed ahead of the game, he said. He learned all the secrets Token and Clyde kept from them, too.  

Turns out, their friends weren't very interesting. Clyde unsurprisingly played dress up with a Barbie doll, and Token once puked at the County Fair all over Wendy. But, come on; who _hadn't_ puked over Wendy at some point? 

Tweek showed up at the crack of dawn on that balmy, breezy day in October. The brown leaves blew, dead and catching, while Tweek woke up Craig's groggy voice by asking him for a prayer. Tweek told him hollowly that they had to do something _real_ this time to get rid of those aliens, and to do that, they needed protection. Craig only memorized one prayer fully through, and Tweek didn't care. He just wanted somebody to pray for him, so Craig hummed it quietly. 

 _Now I lay me down to sleep_ , the sun began to rise,  _I pray the Lord my soul to keep,_   _a_ _nd if I should die before I wake,_ the damn things weren't strike-anywhere matches, they wouldn't go, they wouldn't let go and  _I pray the Lord my soul to take._

That day the fire finally took over his backyard, Craig thought it was impressive how a little match held that much power. 

Tweek never said goodbye, not even an  _abyssinia_. 

Craig wasn't so good at hiding anything. He never was. His face could keep straight much longer than Tweek's could, but that was the extent of it. So dad pulled him by the ear in an October, sprained his match-striking hand, and Craig never denied that he started the fire because he did. 

Dad went through all the backroads pushing ninety, ninety-five, ninety-eight, _ninety-seven_ , ninety eight in rundown Chevy. Mom didn't hurl in front of him. Craig learned that afternoon what he had suspected for years: it _was_ alwaysin the night that the wolves howled. The moon burnt in his retinas, glowed welcoming orange, and it was all Craig could focus on. He didn't realize trees could move so fast. The moon seemed a statue. It didn't run alongside them but stayed and promised Craig stillness existed somewhere in the universe, beyond their car and the flames that licked. Dad was boasting near a hundred on the two-way roads, hollering,  _is this crazy, you wanna see a madman, huh? I'll blow this fucking car up._ Mom was shouting. Her voice, near screaming, was nothing compared to the whir of the world around them.

She was loud, yeah, but it was nothing Craig remembered as clear as the small pelt of every fly that they killed in their path. 

There, a moth died, and Craig lost his bird of hope when the wiper hit it dryly. The car never noticed, never felt the impact of their little lives. 

Mom wasn't arguing. She was just agreeing loudly.  _Yeah, you piece of shit, this is fucking crazy, you’re a fucking lunatic._  Then she turned. Then she turned and venom filled the backseat. Craig still tasted sulfur in his mouth, his hands still had charcoal on them, _his last memory of Tweek,_ and his arm was in that makeshift sling, uncomfortable against the seatbelt. _Don’t take off your goddamn seatbelt, Craig, you little shit. Are you an idiot like your father? You wanna go headfirst, you wanna crack your brains open?_

If dad just hadn'tgone ninety, Craig wouldn't have puked over the backseat thinking about bits of his skull slipping through the AC system. He wondered if the color of his insides was the same off-green as the bugs all over the hood.

And where  _was_ ground control? Where was his best friend,  _the best of friends_ , the slowest kid in Craig's class? That card counter, that piano playing son of a bitch leapt on a train far from town, and it went at forty miles an hour, and farther from their shithole town. 

Blue lights. Blue lights and the cops pulled the bug-killing Chevy off to the side of the road. The cop took one look at Craig, and misread the situation. To the ER, far from mars.

That last October left summer's longing gaze to wallow on dying lupins, quiet. Quiet and still, that's how Craig mended himself to get by. Quiet and still, that's how the moon didn't move.

Quiet and still, that was some promise autumn broke.

* * *

**ii.**

Craig leaves his house early when the dew is settling anew, slipping out through his bedroom window. That damn boring grey pane has been chipping off for the last few years, bit by bit, and now it's curling and clinging to his neck in silver slivers. The cut rubs wrong against the sill. When his ankle hits the sill as he leaves, it's an electrified nerve pain that shoots up. Craig is reminded of how unbelievably stupid he actually is. _Damn_ , almost a decade and he still doesn't know when to quit his backtalk. He should stop talking in general. It'd probably be for the best. Maybe Tweek wouldn't look scared to shit every time Craig gets near him. If Craig wouldn't open that damn trap, he'd never spew those rad insect facts. 

But, hey now, _come on_ , is it  _that_ disturbing to learn that pillbugs have the ability to drink water from both ends? 

Craig touches his leg and hisses.

It's like that dumbass mouth of his really _has_ got a deathwish. It wants a golden noose, silver bullets, even slit at the artery.  _No,_ fucking idiot, no way that's good. That's what they call negative thinking. That's the easy way out. But, maybe just the freeway, if he walked onto it, his voice wouldn't dare compete with the rushing cars. Things could end pretty evenly. _Splat._

The alpha wolves nearly killed each other, and Craig guesses he should feel lucky he got out of that tonight. It was a bitter evening. They're still brooding on those chipped teeth they left to whistle. Mom ditched, gassed up the dumpy Chevy, and said she was gonna buy a lotto ticket. Dad's still sleeping in the recliner. 

Ruby's at Karen's, the fucking lucky bastard child.

Tomorrow, dad could be sorry without saying he's sorry. He could buy  _apology_ beer, tell Craig to invite "the guys" over for some brews. Mom could be sorry, too. She could cry by Craig's bed tomorrow night, tuck him in when she thinks he's asleep, and leave the light on in the closet for when he wakes up. It's an old habit. She doesn't mean the things she shouts, _really_. She just wants him to be safe. 

If that's all she ever wanted, why the fuck has she stayed with dad these years? 

Because they're co-dependent and emotionally, they're both stuck at seventeen. Their relationship was built off a high school fling that should've ended if Craig hadn't been born and his mom wasn't still somewhat Christian. Dad won't ask Craig to help him fix the car tomorrow if Craig's leg holds up the way it's doing. Dad's too uncomfortable, pissed off, and unhappy. It's too soon to expect an apology. Dad's too fucking guilty to watch his son limp. Mom probably won't play her doo wop records tomorrow, and dance until Craig joins her. They don't do that much anymore. She's too high strung to have the time. 

So Craig's slipping out through his bedroom window, and he trips on his untied laces. He's cursing himself for falling down the roof's brown rotting shingles, cursing himself for falling into his dumbass pattern, for being so stupid, _hell_ , even for falling in love because seriously?

 _Seriously_?

Will someone please explain to Craig what the fuck is this bullshit feeling even good for? His heart's breathing bombs most days he even dares to think about Tweek's annoying steel eyes, and how they're smudged blue by the pupils. Why does he have to feel like if he doesn't stick his head in a river, the earth will swallow him up, his favorite insects will devour him from the inside and all for _what?_ What has this feeling accomplished? Scaring the shit out of Tweek? Embarrassment? Mastering pathetic? It is so fucking pathetic _,_ especially since Craig's been keeping Tweek's little note in his sweatshirt pocket. 

_people who love are happy. are you happy?_

Fuck no. Whoever gave Tweek that dumbass anecdote should not reproduce. 

Craig blanks out when he's walking sometimes, and that's really dangerous. He shouldn't think about the light way Tweek walks in, even though his thoughts are so very weighted. Craig's sure the guy's got outstretching, thin, invisible, and powerful wings. Tweek would be the one to do it, he _would_ be the one to fly away. He was always braver than Craig. He'd tough all that shit out in his head,  _alone._ He really was the bravest kid Craig knew. Even with all his fears and anxieties, he'd find some way to make Craig smile. 

Craig supposes, as he tries to enjoy the near-morning air and fading milky way, he could tie his shoelaces. Then again, what's the point of that? No one's awake when he walks in the dew. No one's awake and his back doesn't feel like bending. 

Technically, today Craig's last day of high school. Technically, but the dawn isn't approaching yet. It's nearing four thirty in the morning. Craig feels the full-blown summer blues. He kinda wishes he had something in doo wop to go by. Fuck what Ruby says, that music doesn't make him even more of a pansy.

Does it? No. Besides, if it _does_ , well, that can go drown in a river. 

Right now, he's recklessly wandering. Thinking about how still the moon looks tonight,  _this morning_ , Craig guesses. His shoelaces won't tied, and as they kiss the grass, Craig's glad he's letting them be free. There are woods that grow pine needles and thorns. He can cut through there, and he can lose the full-bodied moon. 

He needs to find some place, some peace, and he's not sure where he left it. Maybe it's still at the tip of an unlit matchstick. The day’s only beginning and instead of feeling relieved, Craig longs for the comforting smell of sulfur waking up citronella candles.

Craig doesn't know where he's going until his untied sneaker knocks up against a headstone.

Oh, goddammit. 

"Sorry." He mumbles groggily. If there's a ghost there, Craig can't tell. The stone just stays unswayed, and Craig squints to make it out by the dull orange light provided by the street over. He can barely see any words, but after a few minutes of frowning at it, he's near sure it says: 

_The wind owned her father, her sister mourned no other._

The church is lonely. 

The crooked headstones stand so very still. Craig totally used to be this patient once. As Craig closes in on them, the imagined aliens of his youth fade, green leaking, and hide behind the stones’ grubby granite.

The church isn't glowing citronella. It's dark. It's cold and very much dead.

Craig's marks up that old paneled building, fingers the windows like they're a keypad he can punch a set of numbers in. Like someone would even pick up on the other end if he dared to press send. 

But, _damn,_ those eyes of Tweek's are strong like steel, they tic like the insides of old watches that keep on going, and fuck if Craig couldn't keep staring until he forgot the alphabet. 

Love's an awesome piece of shit.

Craig hates himself a little for winding up in the cemetery without even thinking about it. He also hates himself a little bit more for wondering if Tweek's sitting in that church alone. He really wonders if Tweek is homeless. 

Dawn opens. Craig's brain feels the funk that comes with sleeping only twenty minutes. His head's gotten heavy.

Craig never thought he'd be comforted by the silence the dead promise. He used to need to know that river was running. Now he's just jealous that something can leave, that it was born unchained like that. The rusting swing set,  _squeak,_  sways occasionally. He waits to hear the peepers chirp. They're loudest in the dawn, call him by water, calming.

 _If_ he shuts his eyes, simply takes in the earthy smells, the wafting honeysuckle air, he can listen. Craig can still, if he strains, hear all the sounds they made when his spaceman alter ego used to save the world. 

This whole fucking year hasn't been a waltz down memory lane; it's been a road backwards that won't end, flat and uncurving through hazy cornfields. It's been the zip, zip zagging of their path from long ago, walking the overgrown churchyard. That old map of Tweek’s with his shitty nine year old writing scorched every place they could be, and Craig can't leave.

Craig hops onto the Ralph’s headstone, right by one of the big windows. He doesn't bother peering in or knocking. If Tweek's there, he'll find Craig. He doesn't feel like sleeping, but his body's telling him not to be a moron. Craig shifts his legs on the cool granite that’ll be soaking up the sun soon. Right now, it's retaining frost.

Craig closes his eyes and clicks his feet three times.

“For mars, to home.” He mumbles unconsciously, eyes unwilling to open. His eyes stay shut even though he _refuse_ to fall asleep in a graveyard. That's just too weirdly ironic, right? Come on, dead people _sleep_ here, Craig shouldn't.

The sun’s creeping over the hills, the sky is a lovely underpainting of cobalt. 

Kinda weird how easily Thursday blew away with the kite that Token was too insistent on messing around with. The bluejay kite rolled out to the bay, and Clyde ran to get it but he even lost it. Craig really hates endings. Yesterday was warm, it was odd, smokey, and bittersweet. It was some kind of conclusion. Craig doesn’t cry often, and he can count on a hand the amount of times someone’s actually witnessed it. He wasn’t going to cry then, but it doesn't seem right that no one teared up. Not even Clyde's sappy ass. Clyde looked relieved, his dopey smile and crude jokes lightened Token up. No one was mad, no one yelled.

When dumbo Clyde got his shoes all wet impulsively chasing Token's kite through the water, Craig very nearly croaked that he’d miss the two bastards.

Instead, Craig swallowed his apprehension about their future, and just said he’d see them all tomorrow. Yeah, even toned, mellow, calm and totally collected while he lied.

There’s a loud snap of a branch breaking that jolts his eyes wide open. Craig groans and scuffs his faded jeans against the granite stone. The dew is still stifling. He nearly falls off mars but regains his balance as he looks around. There’s nothing there. 

The headstone across from him stares. 

 _I said, she belonged to the wind, and he mourned for no other._ Craig furrows his brows at it. He should totallyget some sleep. Hallucinating? Really? 

"That's not what you said." Craig blurts aloud. 

 _Nitpick, why don't you?_ A different stone reads, with an arrow pointing to the next one. Craig follows it. 

"Well. This is it. I'm finally going crazy." 

_You're not crazy, kid._

"No, shit, that's cool. Neat. My brain is a stubborn asshole with me, too." 

 _Language._ Small text reads engraved in granite. Solid. The sun's beginning to cast light shadows. Craig blinks at the stones, feeling a little dizzy.

"Am I breathing?"

 _Pinch yourself._ Craig doesn't know why but he does. It stings minimally.  _Check your pulse if you feel more comfortable._

"Whoa. Fucking neato." Craig nearly giggles as exhaustion finally sets in. He doesn't check his pulse. 

 _Language's important._ The stone reads. 

"Holy hell," Craig grumbles. "Headstones are lecturing me. Wow. Life's great."

 _I wouldn't know._ Then the writings disappear, read back at Craig various dates and names of people who died during the Civil War, during World War II and a baby that was killed of who knows what. That's the saddest one, Craig thinks, as he blinks again and leans closer to read the text. Born in May, dead by September. It just says  _Baby._ No _John_ or  _Susie_ , or even a last name. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” This time, Craig does fall of the headstone.

"Christ, Tweek,” Craig says, unusually startled as he lands flat on the wet grass. He turns around to find the source of the the question but he can't spot the clunky old headphones pulling back blonde hair anywhere. He sighs. “You’re a spooky fuck. You know that, right?”

“I d-don’t, I don’t know,” Tweek mutters. Craig rubs at his head, decides that does nothing, and is, instead, rather futile. Giving up, he flops against the granite marker of mars, and grunts in defeat. “A-are you,” Tweek pokes his head out from the church door, and walks out. He stands, wearily at a distance, looking concerned. “Are you _okay_?”

“Fine. I’m fucking great.”

“Oh. Y-you,” Tweek flinches. “You don’t look it.”

“Sarcasm goes well with you,” Craig scoffs dryly. Tweek scrunches his nose up. "Have you," Craig begins slowly, staring at the stone that just says  _Baby_. "Have you heard a baby cry?"

"What?" Tweek twitches, Craig can tell, but he doesn't look to see how cute that is because he's too focused on that headstone. 

"Your ghosts, man," Craig says again. "The baby.  _That_ baby. Have you heard a baby cry with your damn candle?" 

"I d-don't know, m-man. I h-hear a lot of things." 

"Huh." Craig says, thinking too deeply about this life that wasn't lived and is eternally known as  _Baby_. As long as granite lasts, as long as the bones survive, _Baby._ Nothing more than  _Baby, May 17, 1886 - September 5, 1886_. How fucking sinking the feeling is setting, deep on his ribcage. 

“Why a-are you here? Shouldn’t you be at s-school soon?”

“Shit, what time is it?” Craig musters up, rubbing at his face, trying to let go of the feeling. Tweek checks the Waltham.

“Three past seven,” Craig groans slightly and says nothing. “Wh-when did you get here?” Craig eyes the heavens, wondering where _Baby_ went to if Tweek can't hear any cries. Above, it's no longer cobalt but a spreading and shifting pink sun-thirsty sky. 

“It was still dark out.” Tweek makes a small noise.

“You braved the dark just t-to, to come here?" Tweek asks, an impressed expression. "Why?”

“I’m not afraid of the dark. I'm not ten.”

“You c-can still be afraid if you want,” Tweek blurts. "It's, i-it's okay."

“Well, I'm not.” Craig resolves, plucking a dandelion from the grass and twirling it.

“I d-don’t," Tweek rubs his arm. " _I_ still g-get afraid."

"Of what?" Tweek doesn't answer for a long time. They just breathe and exhaustion's really starting to hit Craig. He thinks about how nice it would be to shut his eyes, to dream about deserts with easy diners, off the road from getaways that won't work. He could dream about that bowling alley he went to with Clyde once, too. Sometimes, his brain takes him there, and his dreams draw on the the carpeted floor that glowed cartoon spaceships, and how Clyde danced to 80s synth music wildly. He could dream about playing chess on the moon, about knotting his shirts until they made a rope, a lasso, a noos--- _fuck_ , that's negative thinking. 

"The l-living." Tweek whispers, picking at his wrist. Craig furrows his brows. 

"Did you forget that you're alive, too, buddy? You can't be afraid of yourself." Craig says, even though he's pretty positive that it's possible. 

"N-not, not always, I m-mean, _sometimes_."

"Hey," Craig twirls the dandelion. "Come here," Tweek glances at the thirteen feet that's separating them. He looks at Craig like there's a poisonous snake lying between. Craig shifts an eyebrow. "I  _won't_ bite, you know. You don't need those daggers." Tweek huffs. 

"I know." Tweek walks closer and settles next to mars, a good foot from Craig. Craig reaches over Tweek to gesture. Tweek flinches. Craig doesn't notice.

"Could you hand me that?" Tweek's breathing quickens, his shoulders hunch. "Hey, you good, man?" 

"I, uh," Tweek glares. "Y-you, you won't get it."

"I didn't say I would," Craig sighs. "Just asked if you were okay," The breeze warms his face, makes him feel like life's being enjoyed, briefly. He thinks about the bugs, crawling through the grass and he thinks about the dragonflies by the rushing river. "Would you hand me that?" Craig asks again, and Tweek follows his index finger to a dandelion. Only a dandelion.

"Oh," Only a dandelion, Craig doesn't want to mark Tweek up. He just wants a fucking dandelion. "Okay. Y-yeah, sure." Tweek agrees and nervously pulls the flower out of the grass before handing it off to Craig with shaking fingers. Their hands ghost. Craig takes the dandelion and adds it to a collection in his lap. 

"Are you ever afraid of me?" Craig asks as he occupies his time with weaving the bright yellow flowers together. Tweek doesn't answer. The silence rings. Craig wishes, for the first time since the snow melted, that it would go back. He wishes even for the godawful, brutal cold October boasted. The kind that kills, and tingles warmth in back of your hands once you grow numb enough. Craig needs to grow numb enough again.

"Cricket, I,” Craig shuts his eyes briefly, pretty sure Tweek's hesitation this time means something. “H-hey, cricket why _are_ you h-here?” Tweek asks suspiciously. Craig rolls his eyes, setting a dandelion down as he rubs at his face.

“Tweek, if you can show me a deed to this place with your name on it, I’ll get off your fucking property but,” Craig folds his legs, grimacing when his ankle hits something. “Until _then_ , it’s not really your business.” Tweek squints, scrunches his nose and nods.

“Ouch. I,” Tweek begins, hesitently. “I was j-just curious, asshole. What are you doing?” Craig flicks his eyes up at Tweek, pausing his weaving. 

"Careful, Alice, don't fall too far down," Tweek feels something on his face. It's very cold, tingling and spreading. The way Craig talks sometimes does that to him. "Do you know how adaptive these little bastards are?" Craig asks, gesturing to the dandelions in his lap. 

"And p-predictable." Tweek mumbles. 

"Yeah? How so?" Craig asks, tying his crown of dandelion flowers up. 

"I d-don't know how true it is, but," Tweek smiles slightly. "My mom s-said they u-used to call them fairy clocks. Y-you know cause they bloom in dawn, a-and shut when the sun leaves." 

"That's cool," Craig's mouth twitches upward briefly. He looks at the wreath of dandelions in his hands. "Here." Craig says, holding out the dandelions. 

"Wh-what?" Tweek twitches. 

"It's for you. Good luck." 

"Oh."

"Yeah, um, I think, since you're leaving, you know? You're a gritty bastard. They are, too." Craig states lowly, still holding out the flowers. Tweek takes the flower crown and Craig looks relieved.

"O-oh, h-hey," Tweek begins. “Sometimes,” Tweek says, moving to sit crossed legged. “S-sometimes I c-can’t fall asleep when it rains,” Tweek draws out, thoughtfully. “Or sleets.” 

“That’s weird. You’re weird.” Craig says, casually, as his head leans back against the gravestone. Damn, there’s a skeleton five and a half feet below him. It’s seven in the morning, he's a fucking high school _senior_ on his very last day, and he’s not asleep, but he may as well be. This whole situation is too surreal.

Huh. Maybe Craig’s the weird one. But Tweek's still gripping a ring of flowers, looking confused and dazed as fuck. 

“D-don’t you remember how b-badly it was sleeting when, when I left y-you all behind?” Craig shakes his head.

“Tell me about it. Remind me. Please.” Craig says, lowly. 

“It w-was, man, brilliant white s-seagulls and everything, and th-that big gust from Denver b-broke through so I,” Tweek frowns, near whispering, twirling the chain of flowers. “I didn’t s-say goodbye.”

“You still left.” Craig says and Tweek finds enough frustration, even through the mess of expanding balloons in his ready-to-rip ribcage, to glare at Craig. When Tweek looks over to his dumbass friend, the beautiful bastard's eyes are hollowing, starting to disconnect, and Tweek softens his gaze. Craig’s drifting, staring at a baby's headstone. 

“But I came b-back, didn’t I?”

“You’re still leaving.” Craig points out.

“I, I.” Tweek looks lost, and he doesn't know where to put the flower crown in his hands. Craig takes it from him, and lifts it over Tweek's head. "What are doing?"

"Sh, dude, this is what you're supposed to do."

"It feels stupid." Tweek says, unblinking, and judgmental. Craig scoffs laughter. He looks back at Tweek, golden hair lit, green flower stems sticking out, and looking hella uncomfortable. 

"Nah, it's cute." 

"Oh god." Tweek whispers. Craig leans against the headstone again, watches Tweek as he shuffles in his pocket and grips a recorded cassette. He tosses it over in his hands, staring into the yellowing sticker. The flowers move with him. Craig thinks it'd be pretty neat if a couple bees landed on Tweek's crown. “L-look, I came back, at any rate.” Tweek argues, yellowing sticker bold in his sight. In a felt pen, his dad's handwriting still beams over time:  _4:13 AM February_. His dad used to take large gasps between his letters like he'd collapse if he didn't take a break.  

“Fucking slow rate.” Craig tries to joke.

“Wh-why _are_ you here, Craig?” Tweek asks, fumbling with the tape and feeling the light weight of those durable weeds. 

“Shit, you’re relentless," Tweek does nothing, shifts nothing, and the wind howls. “I was contemplating the best plot,” Craig half-jokes, mostly lies. “I’m getting old, man. I should think about settling down.”

“O-oh.” Tweek manages.

“Mhm,” Craig nods. “So where’s the best view?”

“There," Tweek gestures, somewhat near where Craig's sitting, extending his parka-clad arm. His fingers are tucked way in, gripping the jacket tightly. Craig realizes how nice and warm it is. Tweek totally doesn't need that jacket. Craig wonders if he's sick. He shouldn't leave if he's sick. He should wait until he gets better. "Y-you can be right next to mars.”

“Yeah," Craig mutters, fiddling with a leftover dandelion. "For mars.” Craig slips, haphazardly.

“To home.” Tweek finishes on a mutter. Craig almost smiles. Tweek doesn’t. He just glares at the green living grass like he's jealous of it.

"You remember?"

"I, I," Tweek frowns. "I remember a lot."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Course," Tweek begins, slowly turning the tape. "I remember uh," Tweek frowns. "A lot. T-too much," Tweek sighs, and it's awfully burdened. His throat sounds like pop rocks. "I r-remember the sound you made when you smiled, you know, after school. You make the b-best sounds, man." 

"Um," Craig's face reddens. Tweek blinks cluelessly. “Neat.” Craig says, even though it’s most certainly not ‘ _neat_ ’. It's something far from weird, on its' own goddamn island.

"Shit," Tweek widens his eyes. "Th-that's a little, uh, a little homo, isn't it?"

"How should I know? You said it. Did you _,_ " Craig begins, cautiously. He rubs at his neck. "Did you, um, did you," Craig _hates_ how easily flustered he gets around this blonde bastard but Tweek seems to think it's the fucking funniest thing he's seen. "Aren't you hot?" What a rhetorical question Craig realizes he's asking. "I mean that coat," Craig backtracks, but Tweek doesn't know all the alleys his mind gets stuck in. "Aren't you, um, isn't it hot?"

“I d-don’t know,” Tweek mumbles, no longer smiling, as he draws his knees up under his chin. "I'm fine." 

"Really? But it's," Craig feels around. "Nearing the seventies, you really aren't hot in that?" Shut up, language. 

"I'm, I-I'm fine, so would you leave it? Christ," Tweek snaps. "You, you don't n-need to baby me."

"I'm not babying you. I just thought you might want to take it off." 

"D-don't, don't say that shit," Tweek furrows his brows. "What? _What?_ Y-you keep  _staring_ ," Tweek flinches. "Wh-what do you  _want,_ man?"

“Sorry,” Craig sighs, seems to draw a conclusion as he nods to himself. “Fuck, this is weird.”

“Wh-what’s, what’s weird?” 

“Don’t make me _say_ it.” Craig looks down.

“But, I,” Tweek pulls at his hair slightly. “I don’t understand wh-what you’re talking about! I  _n-never_ ever understand what you, y-you, what you even,”  _See. "_ You know? I mean, you aren't that w-way. I know you a-aren't but _fuck_ ," Tweek hisses. "All the stares, dude!" 

"I,” Craig starts, honestly. “I never wanted to make you uncomfortable," Craig says, grimacing slightly. "You can’t _catch_ gay, though.” Tweek furrows his eyebrows.

“That's not wh-what I'm saying," Tweek looks semi-pissed. "Y-you don't get it. I’m not a b-bigot.”

“Nah,” Craig begins, voice croaking. “Doesn’t make you a bigot if you’re uncomfortable. It’s fine.” Craig says, even though it’s not.

“ _That_ d-doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Tweek, it’s fine if it does,” Craig kind of lies. “I’d rather you be honest.”

“I-it’s not about th-that, for fuck’s sake!” Tweek shouts, alarming himself at his volume. If Craig’s surprised, he doesn’t look it. His eyebrows arch slightly more than normal, but that’s about it. “Y-yeah, it’s not,” Tweek squints like he’s trying to hold back something and swallows down some thoughts. “It’s n-not something I," Tweek sighs shakily. "It's n-not, y-you know," He moves his hands rapidly, to try to rush his point along. "It's, uh, something _y-you_  should hear.”

“Try again?" Craig asks, hopefully.

“No. F-fuck no,” Tweek resolves, huffing. Craig chews at his lip. “W-well, would you wanna t-talk about where you got that limp?” Tweek snaps. Craig straightens his neck and sits up, hunched over.  

“How long were you watching me?" 

"Not r-really, not m-much at all," Tweek twitches more when he lies. "I, i-it's just, j-just," Tweek looks near ready to break and Craig feels uncomfortable. "F-fuck it all, C-Craig." Tweek groans. "J-just, just leave them and c-come with me.  _Please_." 

"If you think I stare at you a lot _now_ ," Craig states honestly, looking at his hands. He covers them with is face, groans. "Fuck, dude, I never _mean_ to look at you so much. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, you're just," Craig cringes like this conversation is physically paining him, which would explain the beating his lungs are taking. "You just mean a lot to me, and it doesn't help when your mouth, y'know, does that thing." 

"Wh-what thing?" Craig doesn't look up. He just gestures haphazardly with his hands. 

"Zig zags, buddy,  _I_ don't know," Craig mutters. "It's," Craig makes a very pained noise. "It's fucking beautiful when you talk."

"I, uh,  _o-oh_ ," Tweek stutters like the wind falls. The wind picks up. Tweek considers digging through his bag for a pack of cards. He considers telling Craig the rules of five card stud again, and he thinks about the calm, understanding way that Craig gingerly walks in. He's always been that way. He's always been patient and willing to listen. "H-hey, February, th-that's what you are,” Tweek speaks slowly, carefully, like he’s building a tower out of cards. How he used to play, before papa taught him how to shuffle a bridge. “J-just, just take this. Keep it.” Tweek tosses the cassette a fair distance and it lands softly on the grass next to Craig’s foot. He finally uncrooks his neck from jammed up against the stone in that awkward position. Craig studies the little tape and flips it in his hand. He’s quiet for a few minutes, and Tweek occupies that time by watching the clouds disperse in the sky, dissolve like cotton candy after it’s been licked.

“Is this the one with the violinist?” Craig finally asks, still studying the tape.

“Y-yeah, so, so if you hold forward and count to twenty three, that’s, th-that’s important.”

“Why’s it important?” Tweek blinks back something that stings. 

"B-because it is, you fool." Tweek mutters and Craig wants something concrete, but it's hard to get something concrete in fragile sun-cracked plastic. Tweek has loved this tape, Craig realizes, as he holds it in his hands.

"Won't you miss this?" Craig asks, meaning the tape. Tweek rubs at his eyes.

" _Ngh_ ," He flinches. "Of c-course I will. I wish you'd j-just come along so," Tweek grits his teeth. "W-we could have so many more adventures, we w-wouldn't have to live in our heads, bug boy. W-wouldn't you like that? To run together? W-wouldn't you?" Craig bites his lip. 

"I meant the tape." Craig says, holding back a genuine smile. 

"O-oh." Tweek looks embarrassed.  

"Yeah.  _Oh,_ " Craig teases, with a small laugh. "Hey, what time is it now?" Tweek near jumps, looking down at his watch. 

"Oh sh-shit, man! _Fuck,_ fuck, fuck!" Tweek exclaims. Craig does something unusual; he fucking giggles. "What?" Tweek glares. "It's g-gonna be eight in seven minutes. Eight." Craig nods simply, trace of a smile all that's left.

"Neato." 

“Y-yeah, yeah.  _Dammit_ , I hate b-being late,” Tweek chokes back a nervous chatter. “You wanna head off now?”

“What’s the point? It’s a half day. They’re pranking the school.”

“I thought you l-liked pranks.”

“I don’t like pranks. I like teaching shitheads and assholes lessons," Craig says with a surprising amount of determination. "Douchebags, too, if time allows.” 

“Clyde told me you h-hotwired a, uh, a car.” Tweek says, with some glint of awe in his eyes. Craig scoffs.

“I didn’t _hotwire_ it. I wasn't that smart. The dumbass left his keys in the classroom,” Craig frowns. “I’m light-fingered. I’m quite possibly a master thief.” Craig wiggles his hands.

“Oh.” Tweek watches, looking near hypnotized at the way Craig dances his fingers.

“Mhm.”

"So you a-aren't going in today?" Craig leans back. 

"Nah."

"Oh."

"Hey, you wanna do something?"

"Like wh-what?"

"Anything. Anything, you name it." Tweek stares at Craig's face, the shadows his dark lashes catch in the sun. Craig's not looking at him with those pretty electric green things that volt up the world. Tweek removes the dandelion crown and hesitantly leans over, holding it in one hand as he takes off Craig's hat. He likes the surprised sound Craig makes. "Dude." Craig protests, reaching for his hat.

"Hush," Tweek says slowly, as he puts the crown on Craig's head. "You, you deserve it more." Tweek says slowly. Craig just looks at the closeness of them, he's never seen  _stars_ so close. He didn't think he could get this close. 

"Um, okay. Feels stupid."

"D-doesn't it!" Tweek agrees, settling back away. "I-it's cute, though." Craig flips Tweek off. Tweek looks at Craig's ankle with an intense stare. He flicks his eyes up briefly to look at Craig's flushed face. 

"I'd kinda like my hat back now." Tweek just holds his own middle finger up to his mouth to silence Craig. He makes a slight hushing noise. Craig's heart does a number of unexpected things, none of which include beating like it's supposed to. 

"Shh, just be m-my Princess Euna," Tweek gets up and leans over Craig's knee, oblivious to the fact that he very nearly broke Craig with that statement. Tweek's light fingers are like icepacks. They bend Craig's leg, and Craig somewhat fights instinctively. "Hold still. Relax." He hisses when Tweek touches his ankle. 

"Who the fuck is Princess Euna?" Craig finally asks, when his voice wanders back to him.

"She never smiles, dude. Th-that's the whole story, it's a R-Russian princess who never smiles."

"I smile."

"Y-yeah, but," Tweek smirks slightly. "I m-mean, mostly with m-me, right?"

"You're so fucking confusing." Craig groans. Tweek shrugs.

"I'm i-interesting, th-though, right?"

"Yeah. _Corn_ mazes are interesting, too." Craig rolls his eyes. 

"You like corn mazes?"

"Sure," Craig agrees. "They're the one tolerable thing about autumn."

"M-me too." Tweek moves his fingerprints against Craig's ankle tenderly. Craig cringes when the soreness pinches. "I l-like the fall, though. I like things cold."

"Hey, could you not do that?" Craig asks with a grimace. Tweek gently takes off the old black sneaker with the galaxy shoelaces. 

"S-sorry, I'll help you, o-okay? What happened?" Tweek asks, clearly frustrated. Craig's unsure if it's directed at him or not.

"I don't know."

"I d-don't buy that." 

"It's just a," Craig winces when Tweek pulls off his sock. "A sprain."

"How'd you d-do it?"

"Business. You should mind your own."

"Th-that's all I've been doing but I wanna expand my knowledge, c-cricket. I don't wanna," Tweek sighs and holds Craig's ankle up. "Pay attention to me a-anymore."

"Jeez, your hands are fucking freezing."

"I d-don't think s-so."

"You're so weird." Craig mutters. 

"D-details," Tweek says, with a small smile that fades as soon as he really looks at the swollen ankle. "Th-they're gonna kill you slowly. That's wh-what they're doing." 

"Can we not talk about this?" Craig pleads, lowly. Tweek glances up and locks his intense gaze with Craig's. 

"Shit, dude. D-distract yourself," Tweek mumbles. "T-tell me something gross about bugs." 

"Since when do you know how to do this stuff?"

"If I h-had whiskey, maybe that'd shut you up," Tweek grumbles. Craig shrugs and tries not to focus on Tweek's cold spidery hands. "Then again, w-we might have a repeat of last w-weekend," Craig glares, reddening. "H-hey, how'd that song go?" 

"I was drunk. I'm not singing it now."

"You're fun wh-when you're drunk. You j-just dance and, and y-you don't bother anyone," Tweek frowns. "You d-don't get d-demanding. You're a g-good drunk cricket," Tweek sighs. "M-my, my mom knew s-some nasty people." Tweek admits, slowly.

"Uh," Tweek mumbles something else incoherent. Craig sighs. "You don't have to do this." Tweek rolls his eyes, scoffs a small laugh.

"Wh-why do you think I'm doing it?"

"I honestly don't know. I'm not even sure  _what_ you're doing." 

"Tell me something gross about bugs, o-okay? This could h-hurt a lot." Craig raises a suspicious eyebrow. 

"Bugs aren't gross." 

"R-really?" Tweek moves his hands slowly. It stings.

"Yeah."

"Wh-who's your favorite, uh," Craig's foot feels the breeze brilliantly. It's nearly freeing, if his ankle didn't pain him like a sonnuvabitch. "Beetle?"

" _Fuck_ ," Craig says, clenching his jaw, as the pain grows up his bones. " _Fuck_ , fuck," Craig whispers. "You, uh," Tweek looks at him apologetically. "You do this a lot?"

"It won't b-be much longer." 

"That's good, that's my goal, you know," Craig grits his teeth, huffing a bitter laugh. "Not much longer."

" _Bugs_." Tweek reminds, hands intense on Craig's swollen ankle.

"Okay, okay," Craig begins. "Um, shit, man, uh, mosquitos bite more when there's a full moon." 

"Why?" Tweek asks, as he turns his hand, mumbling something and closing his eyes. Craig watches him for a moment. 

"No one knows why. It's five hundred percent more, though." 

"Shit, th-that's a lot." 

"They," Craig bites his lip, attempting to ignore the pain. "They also go after you more if you move too much."

"Wh-what?"

"Like, if you fidget or," Craig hisses. "Hey, are you done doing that?"

"A-almost, I sw-swear, it'll be better. Bugs?" 

"Honeybees dance." Tweek laughs. 

"R-really?"

"Yeah, it's not creepy. The way they dance tells the other bees how far their um, their food is from them. You know, figure eights if it's a ways away." Tweek lets go of Craig's ankle and the pain leaves with it. 

"Better?" Craig stares at Tweek in awe as he wiggles his foot around. 

"Fuck, dude."

"Y-yeah, it's b-better?" Tweek asks, nervously. Craig nods enthusiastically. 

"How come you didn't do that to yourself when Clyde pummeled you?" Tweek shrugs as he finds Craig's sock. He slips it back on his foot, with shaking fingers. "You don't have to do that."

"I know," Tweek mumbles. He picks up the darkened sneaker and ties the pretty galaxy laces together in the sloppiest bow Craig's seen. Craig smiles at it. Tweek glances up after he ties the other shoe. "S-see, man? Princess Euna, I'm telling you."

"Shut up." Craig says, red-faced, rubbing at his neck. 

"Maybe more like Cinderella."

"Dammit, Tweek, you're so fucking confusing." Tweek hesitantly places his hand on Craig's knee, tapping it lightly before he rests back in the grass.

"It takes a lot of energy, m-man." 

"The headstones were talking to me." Craig blurts. Tweek looks at him with contorted eyebrows. 

"What'd th-they, what'd they say?"

"I don't fucking know, man." Craig giggles again. Tweek eyes him suspiciously, even though he thinks the sound is the most amazing thing he's heard in days.

"You're l-laughing a lot today."

"I didn't sleep."

"Why not? That's fucking d-dumb, dude!" Tweek begins lecturing. Craig shrugs pathetically. 

"I think I finally understand."

"U-understand  _what?_ What are you t-talking about?"

"That song you used to sing. Do you remember?" Tweek scrunches his nose up. 

"What a-are you s-saying? You need sleep, m-moron." 

"Nah, naw," Craig passively waves his hand. "You knew so many songs."

"When?"

"They were so fucking vulgar," Tweek rolls his eyes. "On the piano," Some bit of recognition rolls over Tweek's face. " _She woulda named it Lulu but the bastard was a boy,_ " Craig sings. Tweek's feeling hyperaware of every hitch Craig's voice gets stuck on. He remembers the music room, the light brown upright piano that had one unplayable C key. He remembers how Craig would sit patiently, listen in like he wanted to join in but didn't know how to have fun. The sunlight shone through the windows. They were alone. Those were Tweek's best days, before darkness set over. "That was my favorite part."

"O-oh, what else?" Tweek chokes out, hoping Craig will sing more. Craig raises an eyebrow. 

"This is so fucked up." Tweek tenses.

"Wh-what is?"

"I would be in English right now. Clyde should be throwing notes at my back. This is so fucked up."

"Oh." Tweek sounds disappointed. 

"No, I don't mean  _this_ , I mean," Craig yawns. "It's fucked up to never sleep. I don't get how you do it. It's weird how the days don't really end or conclude, you know?"

"Some things d-don't end cleanly, nymph. But they  _do_ always end."

"Yeah, I guess." Craig says, unconvincingly. "You've never heard a baby cry?" Craig asks, peering down at Tweek. Tweek shakes his head, eyes steel locked. 

"Not r-recently. Why do you c-care?" 

"Hell if I know." Craig says, with a shrug. The sky's pink is shifting to gold. It's past eight in the morning. Off in a high school with sneaker squeaking linoleum, a handful of seniors have filled the principal's office with shaving cream. Only two miles away, Clyde will be eating vanilla pudding from a mayonnaise jar, and Token will be telling him that it isn't really a prank; it's just weird. 

Tweek raises his eyes to the sun, squints at it until a perfect purple hued circle is bleached in his sight. He listens for the rusting _squeak_  of a swing set. He feels hot under the weight of his coat but no way in hell is he gonna take it off. Through air-rustled leaves, the breeze meets him. Tweek thinks it's an easy morning. If Craig hadn't wound up here, Tweek would be in history soon, stuck staring out the window, and taking brief glances towards Craig every few minutes.

He doesn't have to do that, he doesn't have to think about the outside because he's living it now.

He looks up at Craig, who's finally relaxed his eyelids and is starting to slouch. Tweek thinks Craig looks exhausted. He also thinks that when the sun hits his hair, and the dandelions go backlit in that hippy as fuck crown over his head, that Craig looks beautiful. His hair glows a deep dark color, amber red when the sun hits it just right around the edges. He hopes Craig's sleeping. Somebody should be able to relax, especially Craig with the dangerously dark bags under his eyes. 

But Tweek should talk, really. 

Tweek's fingers wind up tapping mindlessly along Craig's arm. Craig makes a muffled sound, ah, yep, he's asleep, and he falls humorously to the side, landing away from Tweek in the still dewy grass. Half of the dandelions are crushed, slipping crookedly over Craig's closed eyes. The whole display is a little too pretty for Tweek to hold onto all alone.

The sun's so bright. Tweek's impressed Craig can sleep. He peers over to see his dad's old cassette clutched in Craig's hands.  

Tweek's not a very good singer, but he hums along quietly to Liebesleid's sweet violinthat plays in his head. Papa used to tell him what that tape was for. Papa used to play it, mock serenade mama in the goofiest way. He'd dance a weird jig, hoist Tweek on his shoulders and Tweek would serenade, too. It was fun, those few nights they were all together in that house that used to be painted green. Mama looked at papa like his addictions didn't matter, like he wasn't a fucking asshole. She looked at him like she always belonged in whatever moment his eyes went into. Liebesleid, she'd call Tweek her sweet boy, but she'd call papa her darling, her fool, and his addictions didn't matter to her. 

She loved him on the breeze, she loved him when he cheated the cards, she loved him like he'd never been loved, and he returned it in afternoon serenades. In all his swindling, she loved him like no other. 

She didn't belong to the call of the wind, and neither did he but they still hopped on the train, made a swishing breeze to feed the woods with fire. 

Tweek's sorry when he ends Liebesleid. He knows he's in deep shit when he looks over at Craig's sleeping face and the first word that sets its sight on him is _home_.

Liebesleid's over. This feeling won't dissolve. Craig grunts slightly in his dreams, and it finally dawns on Tweek where they're leaning.

The Ralph's headstone anchors. Saturn and Jupiter watched on by the bay, and Craig wouldn't sleep so soundly until they reached the safety of mars.

Up, up, and far away, cocooned by Tweek's ghosts in a comely cemetery.   


	25. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa holy shit hey look i didn't actually die. for reals, i basically did but i'm like jesus and i'm gonna rise up in a long weekend. school's ending real fucking soon so, yay. i haven't given up on this story, and i have a lot of stuff written. just none of it clicks together really atm. comments are so appreciated, loved, helpful, even with stuff you hate/like about the chapter. it just gets me to go in the right direction. 
> 
> thanks so much for sticking through and i'm sorry guys for such the long wait, and i'm also sorry if it's not everything it could be. it's kind of an odd chapter honestly...but ruby's in it? i don't wanna say it's a filler but it kinda feels like it...there's a lot of clyde tho. i dunno, the next chapter bits i have been working on have a shit ton of tweek, but he's not really in this chapter much. 
> 
> ilysm, you guys are awesome people, and i've missed you! <3 now, i gotta finish some stuff for finals.

Clyde walks the dandelions after the graduation ceremony.

Craig didn't attend. He said he didn't want to deal, that he was fine without those people on stage. He won't see most of them for years after this. He was fine without sharing a stage with posed smiles, and Craig enjoyed being his own, walking the emptying town. He wanted to enjoy the day, he says. 

It was supposed to be sunny, but the weatherman's a liar. Everyone's a liar. Storm clouds are rising.

Graduation was this afternoon.  _Was_. Was. Clyde finds himself repeating the fact that it's all over,  _high school's_ just a fever dream of a place he won't go back to. 

Clyde sat unnerved. He spaced out listening to Wendy’s twice re-written speech. He played with his blue robe. He caught Bebe’s thumbs-up and cheerful smile from a distance, grinned widely at her but didn’t feel the moment.

Nothing feels real enough. It's all too short to be over this soon. The thumping of his chest wouldn’t slow, and it still won't. He made sure to holler the ever-hilarious, “ _Go, daddy!_ ” at the end of Token’s speech. 

Clyde walks the dandelions after the ceremony, and he kicks their yellow heads off. He walks the dandelions, and he's sure they'll lead him to Craig.

Clyde swore he wouldn’t cry today, and he kept that promise. He thinks he's becoming numbed. The air doesn't sting his eyes anymore. He should pat himself on the back. He's fitting a mold, now. He's an adult, he's a man, and men won't cry about their pasts. 

But, Clyde's  _dad_ looked close to breaking a number of times. Said he was proud, said Clyde had worked hard to get there, hadn’t he?

Clyde doesn’t think he worked that hard.

Clyde thinks that high school was a breeze that wafted away too soon. High school was a home, an afterschool wonderland when his dad was working. He doesn't want to move on. He wants time to run back, to before senior year,  _before Tweek ran his dumb mouth and reminded him of_   _why the past isn’t daisies, isn’t beautiful._

Clyde just wants to go back to a place where he's far from alone, far from the dangerous things that knock in the night, and he doesn't trust himself to be alone.

Clyde walks the dandelions after the ceremony, until they lead him past the hardware store.

"Hey." Clyde calls out, watching Craig crouch over something green and lively by a dumpster. Craig holds a finger, his  _middle_ finger, in Clyde's direction, signaling him to wait. With one hand, he cups the grass, and Clyde doesn't have enough willpower to wait where he's been told. Clyde approaches, close up, and gets right next to where Craig's leaning. He watches a blur of something green jump out of Craig's palm and into the grass. Craig sighs animatedly. 

"Couldn't control your mouth breathing a goddamn second, could you? Dick." Craig mumbles, getting up. He faces Clyde, looking like his regular self. Deadpan, though it's unusual given where they've been, who they've been these last few months. 

" _Graduated_ dick to you, my man." 

"Nope." Craig still pops the  _p,_ and Clyde watches. Memories lurch. A red pickup passes by, and some dumb old country song plays through those speakers. In distance by the intersection, honking cars drive away from talkative, crying, laughing relatives, and they cut off any sort of taste, any sort of delicacy Clyde could have about handling this situation. Craig looks fine today. Too fine. It's unsettling.

"Your seat was empty. Made me sad." Clyde states.

"You're always sad." 

"I'm not  _always_ sad." Clyde says, rightfully offended. Craig offers Clyde a small, cautious pitiful attempt at a smile as he clasps Clyde on the shoulder briefly before turning away.

"I know, pal." Craig says, dropping his hand, and beginning to leave. Clyde scowls slightly. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where do you think you're going?" 

"Home."

“Well, won’t I see you later?” Craig shrugs.

“Not sure.”

“Douche,” Clyde mumbles. “You’re supposed to celebrate. We’re _graduated!_ We made it. Aren’t you thrilled?” Craig shrugs, kicks at a stone as he continues walkin.

“Won’t miss history, I guess.”

“Right, right, so,” Clyde begins. “Have a beer with me, bro,” Clyde nudges Craig’s shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

“Not much to talk about.”

“I’ll be your wingman if you go to Stan's, promise. Like old times.”

“You were never my wingman. And you pass out first.”

“I _tried_ , Craig, you just didn’t want to fly. You should’ve gone with Wendy to prom last year. She was into you. How’d you blow that again?”

“Wasn’t anything to blow,” Craig says, scrunching his nose up. Clyde looks at him dumbly. Craig allows a slow, small smile. This one looks a little more intentional. It looks less like he was testing out faces. “How many concussions is it now?”

“This many,” Clyde holds up seven fingers, looking way too much like the kid Craig met in elementary school. The kid who wrote in glitter pens. Clyde that blubbered gross tears when the pens dried up, and he refused to write. Craig misses his pink sparkling backwards _Rs_. “What? _What?”_

“You’re old.” Clyde frowns, sour looking.

“Gee, thanks, buzzkill.”

“Want to walk with me the long way home?” Craig asks, unshifting voice in an accepted stance. His tone isn't somber. His tone isn't much of anything. Still, Clyde's kind of touched by the offer.

“You actually want me to?” Craig shrugs, starts walking.

“If you shut up a few minutes, yeah. Sure.”

“But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t talk this much.’

“Be like you are when you’re dreaming, Clyde, and,” Craig squints at the sky. “We’ll walk the long way home.”

“Through the graveyard?” Clyde asks. Craig nods in response. “Figures. I hate that place.”

“Good place to sleep.” Craig says with a shrug.

“Good place to find blondie,” Clyde says, with a huff. Craig slumps his shoulders noticeably. Clyde feels like shit. He feels like a shit friend, for about the millionth time in the last year. “Sorry, it’s just, just,” Clyde begins, not sure what it _just_ is. “Why?”

“Clyde,” Craig begins. “You’re dreaming, remember?”

“No, I’m not.” Clyde says, dumbly.

“Yeah, there’s the problem.” Craig grumbles.

“What, so are you two like, are you a thing yet?” Craig doesn’t answer. They continue walking. Clyde shoves his hands in his pockets. “What do you like about him?” Clyde settles on, somewhat stiffly. Craig crunches used-to-be-mud-cracked-dirt under his feet. Dust clouds puff.

“He’s,” _Home? An abandoned building, vacant eyes some nights, waiting to live again? Laughter?_ "I don't know." Craig says finally, quiet and red.

“You blush _so_ much now. It freaks me out.”

“I think that I’d like to end this conversation.”

“No,” Clyde decides, boldly. “No, it’s taken you fifteen fucking years to get a crush in my presence besides _McCormick_ ,” Craig gives Clyde a side eye. “Oh, don’t give me _that_ BS, Tucker! You were tomato-faced around Kenny all the time in Junior High. I remember, you just said you had a _fever,_ but you never had any fever when we were _out_ of the locker room. Didn’t you ask to do his laun---”

“Okay.” Craig warns, interrupting.

"You totally di---"

"Drop it." But Clyde refuses to drop it. He grins. Craig doesn't really change his expression much, but what else is new? 

“I thought so!” Clyde laughs. “And the poor asshole probably said yeah,” Craig says nothing. To this, Clyde shakes his head, laughing. “Whatever. Look,” Clyde begins slowly, as they’re approaching the old playground by the Catholic school. Clyde hasn't been through here in a few years. They've gotten high in the gazebo some late nights, and Clyde didn't think Craig could ever be as fucked up again. But Tweek, that dumb breeze that Tweek brought in, the freaky graveyard-living bastard, fucked Craig up a little. More than a little. A lot, probably. Craig loaned Tweek the beloved bug book, for fuck's sake. Craig has smiled more than twice in a week, and it hasn't been about army ants. It's about a human, another living, breathing person with two legs instead of eight plus. Clyde didn't even realize Craig could actually _be_ so happy. He didn't realize Craig was really capable of it. “Look, Tweek’s alright. You could do worse, I guess.” Clyde relents, thinking about Tweek's easily forgiving manner. Craig furrows his eyes at the ground. 

“Fuck are you doing, man?” Craig asks, his tone shifting. 

“Giving you my stamp of approval. You're welcome," Clyde adds, as smugly as he's capable of in this moment. "Go on, and tap that,” Clyde says, and it tastes wrong. Craig does nothing. Clyde knows. Clyde's near positive Tweek doesn't know shit about this, and he doesn't even know if Tweek _wants_ anything that Craig so obviously wants to do. Clyde feels an immeasurable rush of empathy for his sorry-ass friend,who doesn't get what it's like to feel ugly, defective, sullied on the inside. Sullied in the places no one should see, no one should be. “But I know, I know,” Clyde says, softly. “I can tell you’re just a dumb fucker in love, right? You don’t want to just _tap_ that like you did with McCormick,” Craig shifts again, tossing a glare to some grass. “You want to go off and have like, a happily ever after with Tweek, don’t you? Raise like, eight guinea pigs or something cute and adorable, right?” Craig says nothing. Clyde grows frustrated. “Seriously, Craig, _seriously?_ Can’t you respond to a damn thing? I’m being a killer friend here. Who’s _super_ dope and supportive? Who's the most helpful bastard you have for a friend? Could it be _me,_  right here? The big C-dog? Yeah, that’s me," Clyde rambles. He makes some noise of protest at the lack of response. "Help me out and give me _something._ ”

“I want amnesia,” Craig suddenly states, with a lot more seriousness than Clyde is picking up on. He stops walking, just surveys the sky. “I want to go home, and not recognize the door in front of me. I want to forget Orion,” Clyde frowns. Craig shrugs, nonchalant. “There. I said something.” Clyde struggles with his next sentence. Craig continues walking.

“Where are you going now?” Clyde says, stopping Craig with his arm.

“Fuck if I know.” Craig groans, tilting his head back, lolling his eyes shut. Clyde watches him, lets go of his hold, and finally lets himself be impressed by Craig's ability to stay so very still. Craig’s been good at that his whole life. He’s been great at keeping his cool. Clyde’s always been envious. He knows there are scars. He knows things rip at him, some nights, and they've gotta lurch through the present, the right here, and now.

To Clyde, Craig’s always able to look like he’s doing a little bit better than surviving.

They approach the graveyard in a silence. Clyde can hear his own breath. He hates its sound, he always does. It beats on its own, never forgets the morning, never forgets the night, and all the things he’s fucked up on. So he opens his mouth a little bit more to say something, and he doesn’t have to listen to its’ _tick tick tick_. So he doesn’t have to listen to his lonely pulse anymore, talk long enough and loud enough so he’s _heard_. No one’s going to shut him up anymore. No one _can_. Craig snaps a stick under his feet and doesn’t even bother to look at the headstones. They keep walking, forcing something to exist that Clyde’s unsure does, or ever has.

Craig seems to have a point he’s making, though, as the angel statue falls way behind them.

“What are you doing now?” Clyde asks, as they reach the street.

“I’ve got sleeping to do.”

“Thought you said the graveyard was a good place for that,” Clyde reminds, a little cheekily and feeling pretty proud of himself for catching the comment from what feels like eons ago. It was really branches, dirt, and bones ago. Craig shrugs. They’re on his street, his odd, twisted street. It’s a dead end, the train tracks run below, and it’s gotta be the most awkward setup Clyde’s seen. “It’s kinda early, isn’t it? Where are your parents?”

“Not here.”

“You know, you could just come with me to my place and chill until we go to Stan’s.” Clyde offers. “I have food.”

“Not doing that tonight,” Craig offers a wane, far from happy, smile. “Brain cells to keep,” Craig heads in his backyard. Clyde doesn’t follow. He’s known Craig long enough to sense his moods when he’s ready to be left alone. “Don’t go home until you’re hungover.” Craig says. Clyde squints over him.

“Guess I won’t.” Craig says nothing more, and heads on towards the roof of his house. He hops onto it with ease, pries his bedroom window open, and promptly shuts the damn thing.

The evening’s cooling.

Nightfall is preparing shadows, shadows that will take over, and Clyde heads home before it overturns a boquet, a veil of deception. 

* * *

Despite the fact that jupiter hangs low, the walks to mars are short. 

 _You're the one who's stuck._  

* * *

Clyde’s sitting alone in his kitchen, picking at a scab that he sure won’t heal without the prying help of his nails. Dad had to leave. The cold grocery cake that spelled out _congrats!_ in red cursive stares at him from the other end of the table. His dad’s plate got left out.

Work called his dad in, an emergency that he tried to get out of, but Clyde told him he understood. It was okay. He’d be fine for a few hours.

Clyde _will_ be fine alone for a few hours.

Amid the silence, the refrigerator is only breathing, and Clyde isn't making enough noise to compete. Does he want to compete? Maybe he just wants to go alongside it, hide behind it. Maybe he needs the warm light when it opens, golden and illuminating everything. Happy, _yeah,_  totally. An open refrigerator’s a wonderful feeling, isn't it?

Where will the potluck potato salad run to now that high school is over? No more grades. No more football. No _Bebe_ on the baseball field, no gassed up Chevy watching Clyde fly high.

Those are his best days, and they're gone. That's what everybody told him. _The best days of your life_ , in those corridors, by those lockers, feeling Bebe's sweater, and junior year was something sweeter. Now, Clyde’s alone in a house that won’t stop ticking, that won’t stop reminding him that he’s old, he will die, and this was the prime. Those were his best days, and they've been buried in the wind, in a paper diploma. Only a handshake a go, a minute too long ago. His red varsity jacket already seems like a relic.

Clyde is old.

The refrigerator door is peeking open. Clyde could've sworn he'd shut it. Dad would probably complain about that, if he knew. Electricity bills be damned, Clyde thinks hollowly, as he submits to shutting the door after he’s graced himself with juice. A mental checklist:

 _No more junk food. Potato chips leave trails. Mars Bars are weak, too soft, too sweet._  

Clyde loads his dead mother's china plate with leftover spaghetti, extra sauce. Leftover salad, yeah, some of that, too.

Clyde turns on all the lights when he’s alone. The small fluorescent bulb by the kitchen sink glows the sharpest. It's a homely kind of charm, lighting up the pale green countertops, the farmer's sink that _drip, drip, drips_. It’s prone to that. His mom used to fix the damn thing, replace the rubber hose, or some kind of washer in the hot water side. Clyde doesn’t know how, or why, but that always breaks first, mom told him that.

That kitchen light burns almost ghostly, some nights, when Clyde's alone in the kitchen.

If Clyde believed in ghosts.

 _If_ Clyde believed in ghosts, he thinks he could play mom's stereo, and maybe she’d be able to fix the fucking faucet. Dad doesn't like to do those kind of things. Craig offered to show Clyde how to repair it once. Clyde refused. _Mom_ replaced it last, ten years ago. Craig blurted out across the kitchen table that night, over a plate of half-burnt bean burgers, that made sense. Maybe the _drip drip drip_ of the faucet was his mother saying hello from the beyond.

Clyde distinctly remembers calling Craig an insensitive jackass, but he quietly considered it, while they munched on those tasteless burgers Craig brought.  

Clyde thinks about it some nights, about what Craig said. When the faucet drips, he wonders if mom would be proud of him. He wonders if she knows everything he’s done. He wonders if mom could sort out his emotions for him, take the swarming pit of anger away from the deceit, and get rid of the confusion. She was really, _really_ good at that, at making Clyde feel safe, loved. 

Clyde keeps his red jacket taut in a ball under his anxious fist.

Clyde stares out the kitchen window, and he places his gaze out onto the street. The house next door has always looked off, but tonight, it disturbs the only solace Clyde’s got in that glowing kitchen light. Clyde’s never been more aware of just how alone he is, how alone he _will_ be next year at college far away from Bebe, far from Token, and even Craig.

Clyde never got used to the new neighbors. He guesses that after eight years, they’re not really _new_ neighbors anymore. But Tweek lived there once, and his parents were never home. They let Tweek have the best toys, and they left him alone. Kids shouldn’t be left alone, but Clyde wasn’t complaining about it back then. They got away with eating all sorts of tooth-rotting garbage.

And Craig, Clyde's mind drifts to that sorry bastard. Craig _likes_ to be alone. He likes to keep to himself. Clyde’s never understood it, and he’s never understood why Tweek’s the only one who got so close. Why does Craig have to keep everything so secret? Doesn’t he see that Clyde knows hurt, too? Can’t he feel it? Maybe Clyde should text Craig, see if he's actually okay. Craig always used to tolerate him, but lately he just smells like whiskey, like he's accepted his blues. 

It's not the same. It hasn't been the same since before the breeze. 

A party is tonight. This time, it’s Stan hosting, and Clyde's not going alone.

Clyde eyes his neighbors’ house again, sees the witch window that Tweek used to live in. Once, years ago, Tweek blinked a flashlight from up there to get Clyde’s attention.

He’s gone now. There’s no light up in the witch window. There hasn’t been for years.

Everyone’s leaving. Clyde’s only living in their absence, alone. He hates silence.

 _Two_ hours to go, two whole fucking hours to wait.

Clyde pulls out his cell phone. The time falls off of fluorescents, but Clyde wants to hear Bebe’s violin. He recorded her playing a sweet jig once. Clyde doesn’t know shit about music, but he _would_ run on that sound she made for miles.

The landline phone rings, loudly, and Clyde jumps to answer even though he knows it's a telemarketer. To pass time. To be safe, it's safe, and nothing more than safe. This is how he keeps safe. The call ends too soon, because Clyde doesn't have much money, and he doesn't actually want to buy a timeshare in Florida.

Couldn't Token just ring him up, though? So he wouldn't have to walk to Stan's alone, be alone much longer? What's his deal anyway? Wendy’s pretentious. Token shouldn’t just go _off_ and hang out with Wendy so much. Wendy and him don't work. They're not compatible, they're too similar. There’s sure to be drama tonight between moping Stan and happy Token. Clyde will have to play peacemaker again. That’s okay. He misses the role.

Clyde’s cell buzzes. He jumps for it, grins as he sees the best words he’s read all day.

_Where you at ziti!!!_

Clyde stretches, forgets about the window, the neighbors next door. He brightens. Bebe can do that. He runs the water over his dishes in the sink, tightens the knob of the faucet. It still _drip drip drips_. He makes sure the fridge is shut, but he keeps his eyes open. He keeps the text screen open, he keeps the blue glow up, the lights all on.

_Where the hell are u im not coming over i swear to bach!!_

_clydeeee y can’t u meet me at stan’s??_

Bebe’s not wrong, but couldn’t she just meet Clyde part way, so he wouldn’t have to walk alone?

_Ur a big boy come on ziti_

He’s not asking _that_ much of her. It’s only ten minutes away. It’s dark out. Bad things happen in the dark, alone, alone, but _Clyde’s_ not fucking defenseless anymore, is he? He proved that to Tweek.

_I hate u sometimes honey_

Just like that, Bebe’s relents. Just like that, Bebe will be walking over. Bebe will pick him up. She’ll be mad that Clyde can’t walk a few minutes by himself at night, _ever_. She can, so what’s Clyde’s damage?

Clyde’s damage wishes to be run through a washing machine, on a cycle that’ll clear it fresh and new, far to the ocean. Clyde’s damage comes from dangerous things that feed off boys in the night, but Clyde’s sure as hell not gonna open his mouth about it.

_Ill be @ urs in 10_

Bebe’s a saint who Clyde has probably pissed off.

* * *

Stuck jupiter is the one who hangs. 

 _You're low, mars, the walks aren't that short._  

But November is clear, in some starry distance, and Tweek's struggling to dream about the chilling forests that make up Alaska's bones. 

 _You're the one that should move on._  

Tweek will taste rain. He'll make it to the ocean sprays of  _every_ shore, and he could plummet - no, he _will_ plummet.

He won't even bother to sprout wings because who  _would_ let a sorry ass bastard like him fly off? 

* * *

The streetlights glow hazy as Craig lays in his bed. His room is lit only by the orange hue below, and it casts purple shadows, making his world seem fuzzier than it already is.

Craig still isn’t a huge fan of the complete darkness. He struggles to find the light, wishes that it was 11:07 again, because that’s when the train comes, brightly and boldly, barreling down the rails below his house.

Ruby’s room is pouring out some synthetic noise trash. Craig can’t muster the energy to pound his fist into the wall, to tell her to shut that garbage down.

He’ll miss the pipsqueak next year anyway. She better start getting used to being alone.

There’s a pounding beat out of sync with Ruby’s music and he hears her door kick open. There’s shouting, but it’s nothing the house hasn’t heard before. Craig sighs.

There’s a patch of his ceiling that’s sprouted cracks in it. The foundation of his house is shifting, but it’s doing so slowly. Clyde told him a few years ago if he thought of it as a milky way, it wouldn’t look as ugly as it did.

Craig proceeded to tell Clyde that there was only the one milky way so he didn’t need to say _a_  milky way. Just _the_ milky way would suffice. Craig ranted on about how it looked nothing like the milky way, and why the hell did Clyde need to bring it up anyway? Clyde just shrugged, trying not to let on to the embarrassment of being shot down show but what did he expect when he brought out the fact that Craig's house was ugly? 

Crying in his sleep, that’s what Clyde did that night but Craig can’t possibly imagine it had anything to do with that conversation. Clyde hates yelling, and Craig’s parents were spitting at each other downstairs.

Their shouts echo through the house, through Craig’s mind in the warm summer evenings like this, when they’re long gone, long wasted.

Craig is a graduate today, but he didn’t walk. He slept through the rough patches, and came home smelling like dirt to a cake that his mom bought. She left it on the counter. The flowers were lime green. It was on a discount. He didn’t eat it.

His dad gave him a fifty this morning, and confused the fuck out of Craig when he told him he didn’t think he could graduate. His dad, after all, barely passed basic algebra. Craig had done good to pass everything, his dad told him as he lit a cigarette. He could get a job, probably high paying, and settle down. _Pop out five kids, and die at twenty seven holding the beer the last of the food stamps was traded in for._  Or whatever. 

Craig should sleep. He should shower. He should also go outside, throw dirt in his hands again and bury his face in the ground. No ivory towers, no match spark grey eyes to look for, no starlight. Nothing expect bugs, bugs, bugs. Weevils that warrant watching, care and Craig can keep them from being scooped by all the bluejays. He can study the lines on their cool transparent wings, the junebugs with their heavy bodies, their clumsy short sense of living.

Yeah, Craig can do it. Craig loves those little buddies still, even after Tweek showed up with his ghosts, distracting Craig with sharp wit and determination. With science fiction and even the nasty green sludge he calls a smoothie.

High school is over. _Clink. Clink._

What the hell is Ruby doing in there?

Craig makes his way to his window, cracking the thing open and hearing the faint clank of rocks or metal or _something_ built to piss Craig’s mood off even more. He crawls onto the roof, following the sound.

“Ruby, the fuck.” Craig whisper-shouts, walking towards his sister’s window, now that the snow has melted away. The evening glows mauve over Craig’s skin, blue peaked where dawn creeps. He knocks hard on the glass of Ruby’s window. She gives him a pathetic sort of shrug and stands, covered with ultramarine paint, smeared up around her neck and even her ear. “Open the window.” She shoves her hands around, showing off wet ochre fingers.

“I can’t.” Her voice comes out muffled. Craig heaves an annoyed sigh and pushes up the window. Really, it’s not much work at all. He just wanted to make her do it for making him crawl out of bed but whatever. Her bass music blares loudly. Craig squeezes his eyes in distaste.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Painting.” She says, dumbly, turning her music down. Craig breathes.

“I mean all the noise. What are you doing?” She furrows her brows.

“Are you talking about my music? This is top notch.” Craig looks at her unimpressed, half inside her window.

“It’s Phil Collins.”

“Top. Notch.” Ruby snarls. Craig rolls his eyes.

“Okay. Sure,” Craig says, unconvinced. “Freak.”

“You should talk.” _Clink. Clink._

“Where the fuck is that sound coming from? It’s pissing me off.”

“What doesn’t piss you off? You’re seriously like, okay, so,” Ruby begins, smearing paint on her jeans and getting ready to gab. “You know my friend Karen?" Craig rolls his eyes because, _yes_ , he knows Ruby's fucking best friend since preschool. The hell. "She PMSs so bad, it’s _insane,_ and the other day, she just started crying in gym. Like, the volleyballs were flying by and I said, Karen, get out of dodge,” She looks wide eyed at Craig as she reenacts the event. “You know? Like, you’re _going_ to get hit but she just started blubbering all of the sudden. Just," Ruby sighs, eyes widening. "Big fat tears, and the volleyballs kept hitting her. I almost called her Clyde, I swear to God.” Craig looks at Ruby blankly. "What, oh, what could you possibly want?" Craig flips her off and hears the damn clinking again. _Clink. Clinkclinkclink._

“That! What the fuck is that?”

“ _I_ don’t know. Probably the train, you big dork.”

“It’s not the train.” Craig says, distracted concentration face on.

“Well, go investigate.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Bothering me.” Craig’s silent for a moment. He starts to leave but pokes his head back in.

“I walked into that one.” Ruby snorts her ridiculous laugh and pulls out more paints. There’s a seafoam one. It reminds Craig of Bebe’s nail polish, reminds Craig of where he should _actually_ be tonight. Watching that hand calm over Clyde’s arm, watching his friends get drunk while he waits on another bottle.

“You literally always do.”

“Your painting looks good. Half of it’s on your face, though. Hope that’s not a problem,” Ruby rolls her eyes, turning to face her brother. “Fabulous. A moving canvas. You’re modern art.” Craig deadpans.

“Oh, shit, Craig. Are you feeling fine? You just said fabulous. Are you sure you don’t have a fever? Should I call the relatives in, the doctor, and the priest, too? Are you going to die of the gay?”

“Hey, fuck off.”

“Did you only come to my room to tell me to fuck off? Some nice brother you are.” Craig flips Ruby his middle finger, once again, and crawls out the window. “Hey, congrats on passing everything, nerd. How does it feel?”

 _Clink clink clink. Clink._ Craig groans.

“I need to find the source of that noise.”

“Why?” Ruby whines. “Can’t you just chill? Did ya know that,” Ruby pulls out a tube of lip balm and smacks it on her lips, getting paint literally everywhere. Craig looks on slightly concerned. “That mom bought champagne?”

“Do you know how toxic oil paint is? For chrissake, Ruby, you’re gonna get cancer. You can’t die before me.”

“It’s cadmium hue, you overbearing mother hen. I’m cheap.” _Clink, clink, clink._

“What the _fuck_ is that sound?”

“Hey, come in, Craig, why don’t you?"

"No, I'm investigating."

"Okay, well, you shouldn’t use the window when you leave,” Ruby says, cracking her neck and painting with ease. “Lord knows you’re terrible at coming out of things.”

“Shitty one. Jeez, why does everyone joke about that?”

“Because, before you were gay---”

“---I’ve _always_ been gay.” Ruby rolls her eyes.

“Before I knew i---”

“---thought you said you always knew.”

“ _Ugh_ , Craig, you want your damn pretty answer or not? You want the t?”

“The fuck’s the t?”

“The t. The _truth_ ,” Ruby says, rolling her eyes. “Sheesh, Craig, why don’t you watch _Drag Race_? They say it all the time. You could totally learn more about your own culture.”

“I’m not a drag queen. That’s not my culture. I won’t be stereotyped.”

“It’s an inspiring show with lots of sexy pit crew members. Come _on_ , this is something we could bond over,” Craig raises an eyebrow, sighing like it takes everything out of him to compose himself and yanno, _not_ flip his little sister off again for the third time in ten minutes. “Hey, Craig, before you came out to me in the way you _did_ \----” Ruby starts, and Craig cringes at the memory. Craig really shouldn’t get drunk anymore and he _really_ shouldn’t do that around his little sister and he _totally_ should not have done that when he was supposed to be watching Ruby but he’s only two fucking years older than her and _if_ Karen didn’t invite Ruby along, and if Kenny didn’t look _kinda_ handsome under the streetlights...maybe Ruby would let that god awful, awkward evening go.

“Ugh.” 

“Yeah, that’s what Karen said.”

“You know, I don’t think it’s necessary to bring this up anymore.”

“‘Member what you said that night? Remember what you told Kenny?” Ruby asks, laughing. Craig refuses to respond, even though he painfully replays that fuzzy little, delightfully shitty, memory. _Let me do your laundry, I’ll even help get it off._ _I mean, get you off. I mean._ Only then did Craig backtrack, remembering some gross pick-up line Token had told him he should use to get chicks but, even though he was loaded with alcohol, didn’t have the courage to say nor did he necessarily believe in it. He just wanted to prove to himself that he was gay, was that weird? Kenny did look handsome, even though he had a shit ton of acne and a gap between his two front teeth. So, Craig’s drunken mind thought asking, _do you come here often?_ was a stellar idea. He was standing outside of Kenny’s house and swaying lazily at the look on Kenny’s face. _This is my house. Are you hitting on me, Tucker?_ Craig remembers feeling relieved that Kenny could even comprehend what he was doing and he relaxed, _is it working?_ Kenny shook his head with a shrug. _Sorry, dude._

Kenny was gracious enough but _fuck_ , was that unbearable.

“You were impenetrable.” Craig makes a disgusted noise.

“ _Really_. Come on, you’re my sister, you’re not supposed to say shit like that!”

“Well, if it’s _funny_ , Craig!” Ruby snickers. Craig draws his mouth to a thin line, squinting at Ruby with one sneaker out the window.

“It’s not funny. You’re worse than Token. I’m leaving.”

“Clyde actually texted me that one a few months ago. Never had the chance to use it. We have a chat group for just these kind of jokes. We brainstorm. It’s fun.”

“Right. Well, while you spend your time being homophobic in my absens ---”

“---it’s not homophobic. I have a gay brother.” Ruby says, face serious. Craig snorts.

“Whatever, pipsqueak. I gotta find that goddamn noise.”

“Close the window, you fucker.” Craig shakes his head.

“Moths, Ruby.”

“I know, so shut the window!”

“How would they get in if I did that?”

“They’re not supposed to get in!"

“They need a home, Ruby,” Craig says slowly. “Everyone does.” Craig adds, quietly, before blinking and reminding himself of where he is. 

“No, no, not in my room! _Don’t_ leave the fucking window open, Craig! If you do, I’ll, I’ll tell dad where you hide his lawn chairs.” Craig seems to think about this. He shrugs, figuring he’ll take one for the team. Of moths. The team of moths.

Shit, maybe Craig's the weird one of his friends.

“I’m leaving the window open.” Craig says, ignoring his sister’s pleads as he clobbers out her room. The damn clinking of some kind of metal is impatient and consistently offbeat. Craig eyes the yard, seeing nothing.

He walks the roof, listens carefully for the obnoxious clink. All he hears is peepers. He closes his eyes.

All that’s living is peepers. All that silence is peepers.

Craig hops down from his roof, onto the grass below and takes in the sweet night air. He walks to the train tracks, following the noise, the damn annoying _clink_.

There’s no train coming.

There's no car on the street.

There's an eighteen year old with few prospects, a sometimes piss poor attitude, and a crook in his neck, a crooked past that breaks a sweat when the moths come home to cocoon. 

It was supposed to be sunny. That weatherman is a fucking liar. 

* * *

Home, away from the tracks and waiting in tired granite, Tweek contemplates what he's got left to lose. The moon licks cotton candy. The moon licks cotton candy, and Tweek counts the strings on his fingers, thinks about the jellybeans of his aunt's jam jar from four years ago  _forty seven forty seven_  and Tweek watches the moon lick cotton candy away, he watches the sky turn into a stomach, and the jellybeans of his aunt's jam jar from two years ago run  _forty three_

In his dreams, mom is there. In his dreams, there below the stars, he's only six years old, maybe seven. Mom's got a plastered smile, and he cries into grandma's chiffon, he cries about losing crickets. 

Somewhere beyond the dandelion rich earth, below the ground, Tweek hears howls. They come in like a ship at dawn, on the beat of a heart, somebody's pulse that knocks urgently, only wants out.

Tweek inhales, seeps his exhales, no longer bated. 

In his dreams, there's a place beyond neon purple feet that _kick, kick, kick_ and deaf, mute hands. In his dreams, there above the stars, he's not six. In his dreams, forty seven jellybeans sit still.

Jupiter bleeds lowly, and the feet to mars don't run anymore. 


	26. mars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhhh i don't know sorry for this chapter it's been a fucking burden but anyway i digress. it's veryyyy long, maybe it's my longest chapter?? so i'm sorry for that too, but i can't split it up really and this kinda morphed from three other chapters, and in those three, there was this one i kinda dug a lot, but it doesn't fit with the ending or the mood so it had to go and i think i'm ranting at this point probably to deter you from reading my wordy garble below
> 
> i'm so positive there are errors and typos in this chapter but i'm beat, so i'm sorry i don't have a beta. 
> 
> thanks again, ily all sm, sooo yeahhh. this is the second to last chapter, and the final chapter's done. i'm just gonna edit it a bit more before i post it. that one is pretty short, because i don't think there's much left to say. soooo when the next chapter comes out, this beast will finally sleep. whoot!
> 
> <3

“Craig.” _Click_. “Craig.” _Click. Click. Splat._ “Craig! Are you awake?”

“It’s ungodly as fuck AM, the hell do you want?”

“Are you awake?”

“Why is there mud on my window?”

“You w-weren’t answering my texts.”

“Did you ever think I might be ignoring you?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why do you think?” Tweek shrugs. Craig sighs, shakes his head as he shuts his window. The mud continues pounding the glass for a good few minutes, and Craig occupies this time by covering his ears with his pillow, not even thankful for the blue glow of the moon above. He is fairly glad his parents aren’t home yet to see the ever-infamous “ _crazy_ ” hothead throw mud at his window, though. He hears a sloppy ass version of some folk song being sung below, unusually loud in Tweek’s voice. “For fuck’s sake.” Craig groans. He yanks open his window, with a fervor that surprises both Craig and Tweek. Tweek’s got grotesquely dirt-clad hands, and as he clasps them together, he gazes up at Craig half-hopelessly. Craig shudders slightly. He squints at the cold, his breath carries crystallized clouds that won’t ever rain. 

Tweek’s barefoot. 

Craig knows Tweek doesn’t even have to bat his eyelashes at Craig to have this dumb power over him. He just basically has to be standing in the general vicinity of Craig, somewhat alive, to place a damn comet in Craig’s lungs. Craig turns away from his backyard, and the asshole standing below. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Tweek stutters out, very relieved at Craig's appearance in the window. Craig glares.  

“What do you want, Tweek?” 

“Uh, a memory?” Tweek asks, rubbing his head. He giggles slightly. “I dunno, man,” He says, dazedly, glazed. “Look! I got s-something, something for ya, hold on,” Tweek pauses to hiccup and clear his throat. His muddy hand lands curved on his chest as he makes a horrified face until the hiccup passes. Craig furrows his brows. But not with concern. Nope. That blonde asshole can have a heart attack for all Craig cares. “J-just a second,” Tweek mumbles, all soft and fuzzy. It’s somewhat apologetic, too, as he flashes a lazy smile, and nearly falls flat on his face. “Swear I’m gonna f-find it.” Craig’s totally not considering jumping down from his roof into the cold, dark night just to see if Tweek’s gonna make it through the next morning. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Craig asks from his window. Tweek lifts his head, surprised with furrowed brows, like he forgot Craig was there. He leans back, looking towards the night sky. It’s a hazy night, but it’s still busy with constellations. Craig knows who’s living up there tonight, who looks down on them all. Who watches passively. 

“I was counting the stars,” Tweek states, lowly and unwavering. No stutter.  _Click, click._ Craig glares at the dumb sound only to find Tweek's hands on his cassette player, ejecting and closing the tape. It click click  _clicks_ , and Craig rolls his eyes, because of  _course._  “I drowned myself in the milky way.” Tweek adds, laughing oddly. 

“Sweeter than the river?” Tweek blinks, almost sober on a still note. 

“Everything’s sweeter than the river.”  

“Really. Everything.” Craig deadpans, picking at his window pane. 

“Y-yeah, and so, so, so much, Craig. There’s _so much_ up and all there. Why couldn’t it just be _there_?” Tweek heaves a sigh. It’s not earth shattering. It’s not even sounding like a burden. The night's cooling, seeping blue out, and Tweek looks like he’s a milk carton child that’ll never be found. “It’s up th-there, I thought it, if it _was_ up there, if they had it, if they were real, if _I_ wasn't f-fucking crazy, and  _stupid_ ," Tweek whispers, frustrated, and  _click, click, clicks_. "I could,” Tweek is pitifully hopeful, as he gazes around the night sky, jumping eyes from section to section. They dart past the big dipper, dive deep into galaxies that breathe differently, bleed differently. “I could get it back, but, fucking hell, _cricket,_ you got a hold on the goddamn t-time or something. I swear you won’t, w-won’t swat your bugs past midnight, would you? I’m the last, the last one, aren’t I?” 

“Sorry?”

“Say I’m the last, say I’m the last.”

“Are you,” Craig pauses. Tweek’s hands aren’t shaking that much. Craig’s unsure what kind of face he’s making, but it’s gotta be somewhere in the realms amused and pissed. “Are you drunk, Tweek?” 

“No. No, no, but I was th-thinking ‘bout,” Tweek begins, softly, rubbing his feet together. “How much I’m gonna miss you, man, and, and, all the things I can’t _do_. I’m not, not right, you know that, don’t you? I got f-fucked over, so I,” Tweek frowns. “I lost half a bottle of whiskey tonight ‘cause I gotta say goodnight, for our tonight, man. _Nighty_ night, bugboy,” Tweek adds with a sloppy wave. He grimaces. “I miss when you called me buddy. You don’t do that anymore, y-you know? I _hate_ nicknames, I hate them so much, b-but, but you, oh, _you_ w-were so wrong, motherfucker. This was supposed to help,” Tweek whispers. “I, I just feel a little less shitty. Still, uh, still hurts? Yeah.”

“Less shitty is an improvement.” Craig settles on, blinking at Tweek’s rant. “Where’d you get the whiskey?”

“Dead guy.” Tweek says with a shrug, rasping though his cough as he tries really hard to stand upright. It doesn’t work. 

“Figures.” 

“Yeah, I don’t even know why I, why I feel so,” Tweek blinks rapidly. He stares at the stars. “What happened to those stars?” Tweek asks, looking up. Craig follows his gaze, leaning out the window. 

“That’s Kallisto. Used to be a hunter.”

“Who?”

“Ursa Major. The big bear.” Craig clarifies.

“Oh, why, why is he up there, again? Tell me again. I forget.”

“ _She_ ,” Craig corrects. “Kallisto, she was seduced by Zeus. Zeus got her pregnant, and Zeus’s wife was mad when she found out, so she turned Kallisto into a bear. She's Ursa Major,” Craig’s voice breathes, quietly, and it’s like rough sand. The breeze blows something sweet in the distance, and Tweek listens. Tweek listens even though he’s heard a different version of Ursa Major’s story, one where Kallisto was jilted, tricked, and cheated out of life as she knew it just because Zeus was a selfish bastard. Tweek listens because Craig is speaking, and that’s cause to be still, to let go. “Kallisto’s son, Arkas, grew up without knowing her, and ended up trying to hunt her in the woods. Zeus turned Arkas into a bear, too, before he could hurt Kallisto. He put both of them up in the sky to keep them safe. Apparently.”

“Damn,” Tweek says, under his breath. “That’s tragic.”

“Yeah,” Craig agrees, shrugging. “It’s just a story. What did you have for me? A memory?” Craig asks, unable to bite his curiosity back as Tweek shuffles, swaying like the pines behind his house in the wind. Tweek giggles. 

“It’s, _fuck_ ,” Tweek blurts, way too loudly. Craig’s pulse flies as high as Kenny used to go with his bowl most Saturday nights, when Tweek has to go and swear like that. “Fucking _finally,_ man, you finally care? Wow, spacey, if you get down here, you can see!” Tweek hollers, slightly manically. Craig shushes him. 

“Dude, neighbors.” Craig warns. Tweek shrugs. 

“I don’t _give_ a shit, man, do I look like, like I do? That’s, yeah, you’re right, man. I wanna, I wanna tell you something, okay?” Craig slides against his bedroom wall, and heaves a sigh. “Hey, where’d you go?” Tweek croaks a whisper from below, confused. Craig huffs once more. 

He’s probably going to regret this. 

“Fuck it," Craig says, under his breath. "You can come up.” Craig relents, lowly. He sits in the darkness of his room, hears the clambering of his drunken friend below, and risks a peek. Tweek’s stumbling pathetically about, swearing quietly at the roof. The moths are rising oxygen to their wings, wringing out his lungs. Craig climbs out onto his roof, feet soundlessly padding until he lies flat on the warm summer shingles, bits of grit clinging to his palms. He leans over the edge. Tweek spots him, and with a delayed bout of worry, he gasps. 

“Don’t _fall_ , man, you could wind up with a s-split spinal cord! You know wh-what, what that fluid in there _s-smells_ like?” Craig frowns down at Tweek. “You know, I couldn’t kill you if that happened. We’d have to _wait_ for you to die. It’d b-be tragic.” 

“Why couldn’t you kill me? I’d rather you kill me, honestly.” Tweek snorts.

“There’s no _way_ I’m I dealing with that sort of karma.” 

“Wouldn’t it be karma if you could end my suffering but didn’t? Sounds like karma to me.” Tweek thinks about this, plies at the grass and gives Craig a curled lip. He studies Craig’s expression, eyes scanning every detail in way that makes Craig uncomfortable. 

“I, I guess I’m selfish.” He says, still intensely staring up at Craig. Craig raises an eyebrow. 

“So, what’s that mean? You can’t spare a couple minutes as I lay dying horribly? Not enough time for me? Poor, incredibly disfigured me.” 

“You know that,” Tweek furrows his brows. He brings his voice to a whisper. “That I don’t see dead people anymore? I can’t see them. I mean, I _hear_ them all the time, but,” Craig picks at the tar of his roof. “Can’t see the way they talk or _anything_.”

“What’s your point?” Tweek blinks, rolling his eyes. 

“You gotta live a little longer, that’s, it’s all. You’re,” Tweek grins to himself. “Cute as a bug’s ear. I like your dimples way too much to, to kill you,” Tweek says, honestly. Craig can feel the heat radiate from his face, and guesses this is one of the few times he’s been glad for the darkness. "Well? Smile more, man."

“Um,” Craig mumbles, ever so gracefully. Tweek doesn’t look up. “You, uh, you really,” He frowns. Damn. Fucking McCormick was right all those years ago. Craig’s a shit sweet talker. How do you respond to _that_? “You think I’d still smile with a snapped spinal cord?” Craig asks, in the same way he would like to ask Tweek what the hell any of that shit about his weird dimples meant. Craig cringes, rubbing his neck while Tweek laughs brightly. Too brightly for night, and this conversation.

“That’s a _funny_ image.” 

“Is it?” Craig asks, incredulously. 

“Well, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand your sense of humor.” 

“Yeah, m-man, like, if somebody’s mouth was replaced with a spinal cord, it’s funny. It’s a funny thought, r-right? I mean, if you could smile with it. It’d be funny to see.” 

“The weirdest things make you laugh.” Craig says, with a shake of his head. Tweek blinks up at him slowly. 

“Wanna fight me over it?” 

“Over _what_?”

“My, uh, my joke?"

"I missed it completely."

"Hey, tough guy. Come at me,” Tweek’s sitting flat on his ass. He tries to get up, but fails. “I got the big guns, man, I swear.” Tweek assures, and Craig is more than content to watch his friend fumble. Tweek repeats the process, ending up with the same result of landing flush against the dew grass. Twice. At least the crickets are cheering him on. Tweek stops trying, seeming to give up.

“Having trouble?”

“Shh, listen, man.” Tweek says, with a slow growing concentration aimed at the ground. He glances up easily at Craig. Craig raises an eyebrow. 

“To wha---”

“ _Shh_.”

“Rude.”

“Shh, shh, just calm your goddamn _handsome_  voice for a second,” Tweek mumbles. “The train, man. It’s the train.” Tweek says, sweetly. The wind stills. The moment’s too calm.

“It goes by a lot.”

“Twice a night.” Tweek says, shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” Craig agrees, slowly. “ _A lot_.”

“I used to fly h-home so I, um,” Tweek inhales deeply, holds back. He wipes at his face roughly. “So I w-wouldn’t have to be in amber’s land anymore. They’ve got big f-flashing lights,” Tweek begins humming softly. Craig feels the vibration of the roof against his hands, as the train closes in on them. “Those days,” Tweek begins, and the train runs with a woosh, this heavy thing on rails that’s good for some kind of escape, some kind of out slow death. Craig finds himself in a somber trance, wondering for about the hundredth time where the train actually goes. It’d be so easy to hop it. “Those days, we didn’t know where the pigs lived. Those were good days.” Tweek stares at the graffiti cargo buses longingly.

“What?” Craig blinks, just registering what Tweek said all those minutes ago, when the last of graffiti cargo passes them by. The wind leaves the two of them, and the silence grows frantically around. Some kind of cocoon that Craig’s ready to break.  

“Huh?” Tweek asks, dumbly. Craig scrunches his nose. 

“You’re drunk.” Tweek shrugs, once more, and Craig’s starting to find it irritating. 

“Maybe a little,” Tweek mumbles. “Will you still love me?” Tweek asks, sincerely. Craig casts his eyes low across the deep blue horizon, flustered silently. 

“Why do you care?” Craig asks, lowly, after a beat.

“Because,” Tweek begins. “Because you’re so fucking _good_ , man. Like,” Tweek arches his back. He eyes the sky pensively. “You’re a good spirit, the good angel with the saint choir, man. That’s your voice, it’s, it’s everything up, up in clouds. Christ, I’m _sorry_. Sorry I told you to shut up, I didn’t mean it, man, uh,” Tweek says. He places his hands in front of him, and tries to sit in an unwavering criss-cross applesauce. He sways slightly, as he spends his energy keeping his palms flush against his knees, against the cassette tape that spits obnoxiously. “You still love me?” He asks, quietly. Craig furrows his eyebrows, calms the tempo of his pulse by peaking his ears to the wind, and inwardly reminding himself that Tweek’s only drunk.  

“You got wasted without me. Dunno how forgivable that is.” 

“You don’t have to forgive me to love me,” Tweek sighs, frustrated, but fuck the bastard because Craig _knows_ that. He might need distance, and he might slip away sometimes. His withdrawal doesn’t mean he hates anyone. It just means that he’s a dumb fuck, loving people who can’t handle the concept without getting shitfaced. Not that Craig’s much better. He can’t admit it without getting shitfaced, either, but at least he says something concrete eventually. “No, _n-no_ , wait. Not that I, would you,” Tweek groans, pushing his hands through his hair anxiously, and Craig guesses Tweek’s not a total shithead. “Would you still love me if I,” Tweek scrunches his nose. “If I followed that gust?” 

“The hell does it matter?” Craig half-pleads, tiredly. 

“I, I,” Tweek begins, wringing his hands over the collar of his shirt. He acts as though there’s something he’s got left to say. “W-would you?”

“You’d beat the wind. You can’t follow anyone.” Craig mutters, hoping to move on from this weird limbo that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t like not understanding. 

“Maybe I _could_  learn to,” Tweek mumbles, gulping. “I don’t know.” Tweek says, running hands through his hair again. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Maybe’s a good word,” Craig says. “Doesn’t matter much. In the end,” Craig retorts, solemnly. Tweek chews on his lip. “You’re still going to leave. You don’t want _anything_ anyone can give you.” Craig admits, lowly. Craig knows there’s a safe place, often abandoned, when he looks at Tweek. He’s almost a home, he’s almost a lot of things, and that's the thing with being young, with growing up.

You can be _almost_ anything. 

Craig’s eyes fall sharply back to the train tracks. Tweek wants those more, and what’s it matter, anyway? It’s not Craig’s business, really. He can’t will himself to say anything else to Tweek right now, because he doesn’t know what any of the last two weeks were supposed to be. He doesn’t get the weird hand holding, or the fact Tweek wants to keep a recording of his voice. Who does that, anyway? What was Craig supposed to tell Tweek on the old tape? 

 _Don’t leave again, no one’s been this good at keeping me awake since Stripe died, but moths can smell each other from miles away, so come back to me someday if sulfur haunts you._  

No. He didn't say that, and he could've because he probably won't see Tweek again for another eight years, if that. Craig doesn’t know what _any_ of it means, and if he could, he’d stuff his nails full of tacks. He’s too drained to figure it out. Craig rests his chin on his hands, tries not to look at Tweek. 

“Craig, but I d-do, uh, I,” Tweek looks up, his steel eyes struggling. “You don’t get it. I _do_ , I really,” Tweek frowns. “Oh, for fuck's _sake,_ could you look at me at least? I’m trying to tell you,” Tweek grits out, through unevenly clenched teeth. Craig flips on his back, stares up at the sky. “Hey asshole, I’m trying to talk t-to you.” The horizon in line, and if he stares long enough, he’s sure he can see for miles above. It’s an untouched land, it’s all pure, and dreams of being asleep. 

“Don’t they know how to live?” Craig mumbles, attempting to get Tweek to leave the conversation, just like he’s going leave their shitty hometown soon. Tweek follows his gaze. He flicks his eyes back to Craig. “The stars. They won’t run away like clouds.”

“What’s wrong with running?”

“Running just makes you tired and sore,” Craig states, plainly as he can muster. “Running doesn’t give you amnesia.” 

“Running can’t _just_ do that. That's not all it is.” Tweek says, brazenly assured. 

“Tough. It's true.” Craig mutters, with a scoff, because yeah, Craig knows what it's like to go out in the evening, knock the sidewalk with an overstuffed bag, and pretend he there's a plan somewhere down those streets. Back then, he couldn't go to mars, not by himself, and he couldn't go home. But he could go to the space station, and maybe if he made it that far, they could get him to mars. In those nights, Craig hoped baseball bats hadn't poisoned his mind too badly, because you had to be smart to be an astronaut, and Craig knew he was a dumb little shit. Astronauts could read, astronauts didn't have dyslexia. They didn't need to go over every line eighteen times over, and still not be able to tell if the word was _dog_ or _god._ Astronauts could run, too. Craig was no good at that. 

The old Chevy with the deflating rear tire, though, that was always good at finding wandering, hapless boys, and Craig didn't ever make it past the churchyard.

“Nah, no, man, running is good. It's worth it, I can run _far_ if I have the chance. It isn’t shakes, no stutters. I, I _hate_ my fucking stutters, look! Look at my damn h-hands,” Tweek holds his hands out in front of him, and Craig can barely see them silhouetted by an orange glow. The grass is lavender. Tweek looks like a ghost. “Nobody, nobody’s ruining hands when you run _._ Running makes you normal. It makes you a human.” Tweek mumbles. 

“Tweek,” Craig begins, blankly. “You’re human. You don’t need to run to prove it. That’s a shitty-ass reason. And, hey, people aren’t even _that_ great. Why do you wanna fit in so badly?”

“I don’t.”

“Seems like you do.” Craig argues.

“No, nuh-uh, you, you don’t get it. _This_ ,” Tweek frowns stubbornly. His freckles shift as he digs at the dirt, claws at it viciously. Craig’s surprised at the aggressive action. “There are th-things that I,” Tweek closes his mouth. He sighs. “I c-could give you a lot of r-reasons.” 

“Yeah?” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Tweek looks at the ground, miserably wringing his hands. “C-can’t you just,” Tweek exhales frustratedly. He looks pitiful, sorry, and Craig just wants to hold onto him until he stops shaking like that. “Can’t y-you just see what kind of proof _I_ am? Can’t you see _this_? Don’t you understand?” Craig shakes his head. 

“Elaborate.” _Honey._

“I need to r-run. I never got to run. I never,” Tweek frowns. He pulls at his shirt collar. “I never had the ch-chance. Not like Clyde.” Tweek adds, somewhat bitterly. 

“What’s Clyde got to do with anything?”

“Jackshit,” Tweek backtracks, way too fast. “I-ignore me.” 

“God, I try to,” Craig used to be good at storing his feelings in a jar, south of the tracks. He marked them in a place, noted they lied under the swingset, by the angel who watches over mars. They lied in a desert, by a dusty diner, in an old folks’ home. In a cemetery, they shifted bones, proved the past ran off sugar highs, cotton candy tossed over the north wind’s airy gasps. “Clyde’s in shit shape.” Craig remarks. Tweek blinks dumbly.  

“But h-he _ran_. He didn’t have to,” Tweek gulps. Tweek had to go dig up that angel by mars again. He had to go in and dance with the bones, the ghosts, the haunted in the daylight, reach mars, and wrap his hands around the moon. He _had_ to put cotton candy back in the sky, and Craig wants to do a number of things to Tweek that he probably shouldn’t, that should stay in the back of Craig’s dumb teenage skull, to thank him for all the colors, for taking him back to the sounds that swingset makes by the angel statue. For the calming wind that blows across from mars, and yeah, Craig didn’t remember any of it before Tweek waltzed back in. “He didn’t have to.” Craig eyes Tweek carefully.  

“Tweek,” Craig begins, unable to stop the pins and needles knocking his ribs, the sick feeling that’s coming up like bile but he needs to know. When he looks at Tweek, he sees an abandoned home. “What happened?” 

“T-told you,” Tweek gulps, closed off, pinched hands, and stern face. “I lost half a bottle of whiskey,” Tweek grimaces. “Half a bottle of whiskey.” Tweek repeats, drawing his knees together. The needles pull at his back, and Craig tries to compose himself. 

“Got a match?” Craig asks. Tweek glares up at Craig, confused. 

“Hey, buggy,” Tweek pipes, looking less lifted, but still less tense. “A-aren’t _you_ supposed to be m-mad at me? I woke you up.” Craig hums thoughtfully, lifting his head. 

“Yeah.” He says softly, after a beat. 

“D-dick, really?” Craig nods.

“ _Really_. Come up here.” Craig says, stretching along the roof. 

“I c-can’t, man, I sm-smell like,” Tweek takes a sniff of himself. “L-like _bourbon_.” 

“Bourbon, too?” Tweek plops his head flat in the grass. “Nice.” Tweek growls out a pained, and hesitant string of words, but Craig can’t make out any of them besides _aliens_. Craig sighs and stands. He walks his roof quietly and confidently, hopping to the grass on smooth feet. Tweek peeks through his hands with apprehension, finding himself kind of enthralled with the swiftness Craig walks in, even though he feels a sinking awareness in his stomach. 

“Y-you’re such a good jumper,” Tweek comments. Craig reaches him with a grimace. “You know th-that? You could be a dancer.” Craig makes a face and shakes his head.

“Nope. I can only disappoint my dad so much in a lifetime.” Tweek frowns. 

“I hate th-that guy.” Craig furrows his eyebrows. 

“My dad?” Tweek nods feverently. “He’s whatever. He’s fine. You shouldn’t,” Craig narrows his eyes at some dirt on his lawn that he mistakes for a beetle. “You shouldn’t hate people. Just ignore them. Fucks with your head if you don’t.”  

“ _H-he,_ he fucks with your h-head, man. He’s got you like, l-like, stuck to sticky t-tape. Just like your bugs. That’s a s-super sad fate, y-you know that?” Craig glares. “If you ignore the b-bad stuff, you get used to ignoring _everything_ , don’t you? Even the good stuff? Even th-the birds, and the foxes, and, and a-all those d-damn _weevils_ , and, w-well, the way you smile sometimes when you, when you’re _thinking_ you’re alone, b-but _dude_ , just look in the mirror, d-don’t you love those l-ladybugs?”

“Tweek," Craig begins, still amused but dead-tired. "What _do_ you want?”

“W-whoa, asshole.” Craig rubs his eyes, yawning. He groans. 

“It’s so fucking late.”

“S-sorry,” Tweek says, somewhat sheepishly. “L-look at you,” Tweek gestures to Craig. Craig looks down. “You’re awake, and it’s m-my fault. Y-you’re even in your pajamas. Shit, man, I, I sh-shouldn’t have c-come here. I j-just,” Tweek pulls his eyebrows together, squinting as if it’ll help figure things out. “I w-wanted to see you. I can go.” 

“No,” Craig says, probably too quickly. “Stay, just,” Craig sighs. “You can’t go in my room like this,” Craig gestures to Tweek’s muddy body. “What the fuck happened? You go for a swim in the river again?” 

“No.” Tweek scoffs wildly. Craig raises an eyebrow.

“What happened?” Tweek shrugs again. Craig rolls his eyes. “Wanna do more than shrug?”

“Maybe.” Tweek says, oddly calm. 

“Shit, you got any more whiskey?” Craig asks, licking his upper lip. Tweek stares at the motion. 

“Uh huh.” Tweek nods, dazedly. Craig looks at him expectantly. 

“Well?” Craig holds out his hands, empty and open. 

“Oh, m-man, _right_ ,” Craig waits as Tweek fumbles through his shirt. “Aw, shit, sh-shit, help me up, I th-think I lost it again,” Craig laughs softly. Tweek looks at him offended. “Wh-what, man? What?”

“No, it’s just, a few months ago, you hated me. Time’s funny. That’s all. Here.” Craig offers his hand as he stands. Tweek screws his face up. He won’t take Craig’s hand.

“Wh-what makes you think I hated you?”

“Hummingbird,” Craig blurts, yawning. He reddens. “I don’t know. It was months ago.” 

“What?” Tweek blinks, beautifully and dumbly. Tweek’s still the most beautiful thing Craig’s ever seen, in his disheveled boozy-flushed, rambling, muddy state, and that’s saying something. Craig’s ogled over the jewel beetles at the museum, who iridescently boast rainbows.

Nothing's ever really compared to Tweek though, and his crooked smile, orion in freckles.

“Mm, yeah,” Craig affirms, sleepily. “Hummingbird.”

“Hummingbird?” Tweek asks again, smile showing slightly. It falters. He looks pensive. “I d-didn’t hate you. I’m k-kinda offended you think I _hated_ you, what the hell, dude?” Craig sighs, hands reaching to the strings on his hat. He frowns. “Hey, you sleep with th-that thing on, too?”

“What _thing_?”

“Your h-hat.”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s not th-the same one, is it? I m-mean, mean, from when,” Tweek breathes quietly. “When we ran to mars?”

“How would _that_ work, Tweek? Have I really not grown since then?” 

“Yeah, you _definitely_ h-have,” Tweek slurs. Craig blinks tiredly. “It looks so old, though.”

“What do you care? You practically walked out of the ‘80s.”

“H-hey.”

“You want help up or not?”

“ _I’m_ confused,” Tweek admits. “Help me be not c-confused.” Craig shrugs and offers his hand. Tweek grips it strongly, and Craig pulls him up. Craig lets go immediately, but watches on with apprehension as Tweek sways. 

“Careful.” 

“D-dude,” Tweek scoffs. “Fuck s-safety. What’ve I g-got left to keep safe?” Tweek eyes Craig oddly. He bites his lip. 

“ _So_ much.” Craig mutters. 

“I,” Tweek frowns. Tweek stumbles forward. “Could you be specific?”

“No, fuck you.” Craig says, flipping Tweek off and starting to turn. Tweek stops him by sloppily putting his cold, dead hands across Craig’s face. The mud’s smearing all over his cheeks, and Craig doesn’t even try to push them off. He’s pretty sure that his ears are red by now, but what the fuck ever, it’s night time, and Tweek is magnetic.  

“ _Y_ - _you’re_ worth a l-lot, man,” Tweek begins, hesitantly, like if he says it too loudly or too confidently, the words will split apart and form something vile. Craig can barely hear Tweek, with his muddy hands cradling but those eyes are so close. “You’re so _warm_ , a-and, and I hate the heat, but you’re _fine_ , man. You’re like lemons in February,” Tweek says, inhaling too close. Craig does not respond. Craig’s not sure he’s capable of responding. “I like lemons.” 

“You’re too talkative.” Craig manages, quietly. Tweek closes his eyes and nods.

“H-hey, bugs, w-would you still love m-me if I was,” Tweek hiccups, his hand jitters, drops down to Craig’s shoulders. “Defective?”

“Defective?”

“Y-yeah, mhm.” Tweek lets gravity do its’ thing, goes near limp against Craig. Craig just stumbles backwards in a half-hearted attempt to keep them both upright. Tweek does smell like whisky. Like, a lot of whiskey. There’s no Tweek smell really left, no citronella. It’s just alcohol.

“You don’t seem _that_ defective. Just drunk.” Craig mumbles, pushing Tweek off, lest he do something undesirable again. 

“Oops,” Tweek sighs. “Still think I’m o-okay?” 

“It’s nothing sleep won’t fix.” Craig half-lies, holding Tweek by his shoulders. 

“Cool, spaceboy.” Tweek says, preoccupied with neon pink, with purple silhouettes, and ghosts of Atlanta miners. He doesn’t believe a single word Craig’s said. He still rests his forehead on Craig’s shoulder, feeling tension underneath, but fuck, he’s far too buzzed, too tired, too unanswered, too landlocked to care. 

When Tweek’s gone, the town won't be empty. Craig might dig up soil in graveyard, but he’ll move on, too. He’ll be fine, Tweek’s sure. Crickets are durable beasts, aren’t they?

“Come on.” Craig says urgently, pushing Tweek up again. He holds on to Craig’s arm with his grubby hands. He squeezes his eyes shut and stays still like that angel statue covered in pretty green moss because _fortyfortyforty seven sun raised devils in the spades spitting and mars won’t move mars is stuck singing hymns to granite carved babes that don’t grow the milkweed won’t outgrow the milkweed and_ goddamn, maybe there’s something to papa’s needles. Maybe it’s something that’ll numb because he can’t walk straight, he can’t even do anything but flounder hopelessly around his childhood friend, come close to spilling the soot over but what would happen and why can’t he find anything to numb it, to ice the sore? If there isn’t anything numb, if there’s _nothing_ to calm his beat, to soothe the beast that _roars nightmares out of hungry, hungry blood, the sound guts make crossing his belly to frisk, to gambling junkies, to_ drunken drunken drunken old filthy bastards, until he minds prisons of purple flashes, and there were four seconds back then, _a long sentence, a fitting birth mark, his birth place,_ and he's a rotten flighty flighty flighty kid 

He used to cry into his arm some nights, but now he’s thinking of crying into the grass below him, until his pulse gets tired of this game. 

Craig’s all Liebeslied, though, and he’s good at keeping the tempo. He’s sandpaper rough, soft violins and he should smell like campfires, but he’s linen fresh laundry rolling in motor oil. Craig adjusts. He’s capable of remembering happy places, of having something to look forward to, and they’re these patterns in his hand, life lines that aren’t riddled with chains, and some twisted will to live. 

Something stubborn that rots. 

Eight was peonies in the flower beds Craig’s mom used to keep, though. Eighteen is held in the same hands, calloused over like an ice terrain.

“Come on.” Craig yawns like a big lion. 

“Wh-where to?” Craig turns his mouth up slightly, walking forward.  

“Shh,” Craig cooes. Tweek stops dead in his tracks, looking intently at Craig. “If you’re quiet,” Craig whispers. Craig stands still. Tweek stays calm. “And we do laundry before Sunday, I won’t have to deal with bloodstains.”

“Who’s gonna hurt you?” Tweek asks, concerned. Craig sighs. 

“No one. It’s a dumb old saying, but you’re superstitious as fuck so,” Craig says. “If you’re quiet, you can come inside.”

“Oh,” Tweek says, pointedly, like this _oh_ is the most meaningful thing he’s ever said. “How am I g-gonna be quiet?” 

“You’re smart.”

“Th-that’s debatable.” Craig rolls his eyes. 

“I want to go back to sleep.” Craig half-whines. 

“What were you dreaming a-about?” Craig ducks away and heads back up the hill behind his house. Tweek stumbles after him. “H-hey,” Tweek mumbles, eyeing the roof carefully, sizing up the jump. “Hey, cricket, hey,” Tweek repeats. Craig hops over to the roof, waiting for Tweek to leap. “Aren’t you gonna t-tell me what was so good to keep you sleeping?” Craig squints one eye at the moon. He closes both.  

“The lack of an interrogation from a drunk asshole,” Tweek scowls, confused frown. Craig rolls his eyes. “ _Silence_ , Tweek, it was damn beautiful. Now, would you figure out the fuck you want from me?” Tweek rubs at his neck. 

“I’d like to fly.”

“I can’t give you wings.” Craig deadpans.

“Then I want a, uh, I don’t know. I w-want the wind to keep breathing, and, a-and I want your eyes not to hurt.”

“My eyes don’t hurt,” Craig says, blinking. He pats his chest. “And feel that? Might not be _breathing_ , but,” Craig sticks a hand out to the wind. “It’s on the west, still going strong. Goals kinda accomplished, buddy.”

“Barely.” Tweek mutters and closes his eyes before he jumps across to the roof. He lands loudly, in a little heap on the dirty shingles. Craig walks fast, helping Tweek up. 

“Why would you shut your eyes before you jumped, fucking fool?” Craig asks softly, while assessing Tweek for damage but the muddy bastard looks fine. 

“I was imagining the sea.” Craig laughs slightly, shaking his head as he crawls back through the window. Tweek follows along. 

“I wish _I_ had some of what you did,” Craig eyes Tweek carefully, with a soft expression, and Tweek’s unaware of much at the moment. “Looks like a nice buzz.” Craig says, leaning back on the windowpane to watch Tweek sway on his roof.

“It’s breezy on th-the sea.”

“Yeah? Tell me about the birds.” 

“You t-tell _me_ about the birds. I d-don’t know jackshit about th-the birds. I just tumbled, and I met the ocean. I k-kissed it, man, and I didn’t even drown.” _Saved that for the milky way,_ Craig guesses, and he stares at Tweek, exhaustion peeking through his face, but _damn,_ Craig would totally risk drowning just to see if Tweek's cherry-chapped mouth tastes like citronella, too. 

“Stay there,” Craig says suddenly, turning to his dresser and yanking out a pair of pajamas all too quickly for the previously still moment. “Here.” Craig holds them out to Tweek, a bit too embarrassed to look at him. 

“What?” Tweek blinks dumbly. Craig rolls his eyes, taking Tweek’s hand, and still holding onto the pajamas in the other one. “Oh,” Tweek mumbles near silent. Craig heads through his door, out into the hallway. There’s a low hum of the TV down the hall, shouting late night infomercials. Craig tenses slightly, but continues down a creaking set of stairs. “H-hey.” Tweek whispers, too loudly, as Craig quietly pads down the stairs. Tweek doesn’t really know why, but he feels the urge to reassure Craig somehow, so he squeezes his hand. Craig relaxes.

Craig’s house is old. It’s got peeling wallpaper on one wall leading down the stairs, in technicolor floral 70s prints. It’s faded. 

“Garish.” Tweek mutters, pointing to the wall. Craig nods in agreement. 

“I hate that shit.” 

“I remember.” 

They continue in silence, letting the late night talk shows of the television sound fall back. The old fridge in the kitchen hums away. Craig pulls Tweek to the bathroom. A little night light glows, with childish stars. Tweek smiles at it. Craig flicks on the overhead light. 

“Shit, d-don’t, the light, dude.” Tweek blinks rapidly. Craig flicks the overhead light off again. 

“Vampire. Look, you’re gonna spend the rest of the night. The rest of whatever’s left.” 

“I am?” Craig nods. 

“Yeah, but you’re not sleeping anywhere like that, so take a shower. Sober up, for fuck’s sake. Give me your clothes.” 

“Oh, god, th-that’s so romantic.” Tweek mumbles sarcastically, and Craig stiffens his neck. 

“Just, Tweek,” Craig groans exasperatedly, red-faced, and slightly annoyed. “Fuck off. I’m trying to be helpful. You woke me up, so don’t continue to be a dick.” Tweek frowns. 

“ _Fine_.”

“Good. So, uh,” Craig sets the clean clothes down. “You wanna let go of my hand?” 

“Oops.” Tweek drops Craig’s hand, eyeing the floral tile on by the sink bathroom, lit by a color-changing LED light, until he realizes Craig’s on the other side, already long gone.

* * *

The shower burns. Tweek thinks about a number of things, dizzily, and it almost feels wrong.

They’ve made it through the winter, though. Past a measure of ghosts, Tweek knows the two of them have wandered a handful of lives over granite carved stones, placed each other side by side while neptune and jupiter watched on by the babbling brook. They’ve laid on train tracks until they got warm, dangerous games of _chicken_ , and stayed there until one of them backed out.

Back then, Tweek wasn’t ready to die. Craig was a calm little bastard.

The shower burns, and hisses weirdly. The water is murky, Tweek's sure, and he doesn't have to look to know how unclean it is. How unclean it'll always be. 

They’ve grown like weeds, split from a planet they both knew, once, but now Craig _loves_ full heartedly. He seems to have a solid hold on it, to understand, and Tweek wants to ask how everyone knows what love means. In all those dumb commercials, the cheap marriages, papa’s serenades still echo in the distance - what if mama’s patience, her devotion was really to a routine? Did she _really_ love papa on the breeze, like no other? 

All that dumb fucking patience. People with patience don’t get to yell. What a cruel thing to have, Tweek thinks, until he only smells citrus. It gets in his eyes, but who the fuck cares at this point? Patience falls across Craig’s palm, the pad of his thumb lining the plain of mars, and Craig’s got too much of it. What a shitty hand he was dealt. Won’t Craig stand still, for all the stupid things Tweek’s done, and hey, hasn’t Tweek only put his bug boy in danger? 

Tight handgrips, crayon wings lounging the cheat deck, lousy bets, and _wait,_ wait  - hadn’t Cassiopeia flickered all the way home? Were those lights just tracks of _theirs, lies_ from opium caves, and how were they men?

Monsters can’t blink, but _they_ must’ve, because Tweek can’t remember anything that four seconds was ever good for. _Two, three in tow, and_ four, four, his wrist is _blue black blue black_ and itchy red raw, like there are bugs digging, throwing dirt around his insides, and Tweek can never find the goddamn exit wound.

And they were something cruel, but goddamn, they blinked in the shadows, and Tweek guesses that made them human.

There are eyes that follow, everywhere. Fingerprints always go farther and monsters never take any refuse, monsters don’t have ears. Monsters don’t have a hippocampus, a hypothalamus, they can’t, but they still leave a burden of a beast, carve the insides of a belly that’ll never grow full, never find anything in summers lazy ends. 

All alone, never alone, never through, and _there’s_ the danger. 

The shower burns, even though it's off. 

* * *

Craig's leaning against a wall, looking asleep. He lifts his head at the sound of the door opening, and blinks tiredly at Tweek.

“Jeez," Craig says, as Tweek gets closer. "You used a lot of soap.” 

“My f-fingernails are still dirty, l-look, look.” Tweek responds, instead of saying something normal, something that would come off remotely normal. Craig bites his lip and pulls Tweek’s fingers close to his face. He concentrates carefully, inspecting them. 

“Cleaner than mine.” He finally says, with a slight shrug, and they head soundlessly up the stairs. Craig doesn’t take Tweek’s hand this time. Tweek misses it. It was a weird connection to the ground and above, some lines that crossed, that will cross again, and they were the same once. 

Tweek wants to ask Craig a lot of things in this moment. Craig is busy, though, and Tweek has his cassette player to _click clink click_. Craig is pulling blankets off his bed, folding a few on the floor too methodically. 

The wind howls, cold and lonesome. 

Craig has plopped on the floor, in his mess of blankets. He’s struggling to stay awake, eyelids folding in until his lashes go comely. Tweek is tempted to thumb the scar above his eyebrow again, to see how alert Craig would get. He doesn’t.

“I felt like a fool recording this.” Craig blurts as he pulls out a tape, and offers it to Tweek. Tweek eyes it greedily. 

“Shit, is, i-is that what I th-think it is?” Craig simply nods, not looking at Tweek, just staring at the blankets in front of him. 

“You gonna take this or what?” Craig says, somewhat gruffly and Tweek reaches forward, gingerly accepting the tape. He cradles it. Craig glances up, stifling a small laugh. “It’s just plastic, Tweek. You don’t need to be so careful."

“Nuh uh, _shit_ ,” Tweek smiles slightly. “It’s n-not, it’s not just plastic. It’s gold. It’s proof, like a secret document.” 

“Proof of what?” _Proof that you exist._

“Proof that y-you were so damn ridiculous at one point. I’ll b-bet in a year, you won’t even be anything like this.” Tweek says, shaking the tape. Craig furrows his brows. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“P-people change. Y’know, it’s j-just, it’s just a, a, uh.” Tweek doesn’t finish his sentence, because Craig seems mildly pissed.

“You think this is a phase?” 

“W-well,” Tweek fumbles slightly. “Well, I m-mean, towards _me_. I’m not exactly,” Tweek frowns, eyeing the floor again. “ _I’m_ n-not a sustainable thing.”

“No animal’s sustainable,” Craig states. Tweek looks unconvinced with that comment. Craig rolls his eyes. “Go to sleep, Tweek.” Craig says, muffled from his pillow, and stretching a hand to his empty bed, shooing Tweek towards it. Tweek sits on the edge of it. He stares out the window, thinks about containing stars in jam jars. He wonders if Craig’s done that to fireflies, or if he lets them go, too.

Craig is _supposed_ to love him, and Tweek knows, _somewhere that rots_ , that it’s not the same. It wouldn’t be the same, he wouldn’t _do_ the same. 

Craig is supposed to love him, and the idea greets Tweek with all kinds of weevils, the moths, the hornets, and creepy crawlies. Craig maybe loves him, and Tweek hopes it’s not what he thinks it means. Tweek hopes to learn that everyone has misinterpreted love, that _Craig_ has just misinterpreted the feeling, like he did with Mr. Alder’s shitty math questions. 

Love has gotta be a misread, poorly written math question, because Tweek can’t keep his ghosts from screaming, the past from manhandling, and his future won’t ever shine liquid sun. 

Tweek pockets the tape, carefully setting it with his cassette player.

Craig’s a sun absorber, a morning lover, and a stubborn asshole with way too much information about the mating rituals of dung beetles, but Tweek can’t stop the snow. He can’t stop this blizzard in the middle of June making a home out of his insides. He’s cold, there, _there_ , and yeah, he’ll wade by the goldenrods if he plays it safe. 

If Tweek makes a _good_ bet, he can’t stop his feet from walking, he can’t soothe neon so she won’t kick and scream, and he can’t stop his head from wondering if Craig sings loudly when he’s alone. Does Craig still walk crooked even when he shuts his eyes, does he still step on every crack in the sidewalk, and does he recite rhymes in his head to remember what day it is? Does he have trouble reading, does he have dyslexia? Does he clean out the guns in his father’s cabinet, downstairs? Does he know how to pull a trigger? Is it this song, spinning on Tweek’s cassette player now, old doo wop, that Craig sings there, too, disassembled .45 colt laid like scrap metal on the busted TV tray - do the Tuckers still have that fuchsia tray? 

Do they have the bad movie posters in the guest room, still, that Craig wanted to scorch along with the rest if the house? And does Craig still get that determined, fierce glint in his eye when he strikes a match? Does he seem like he’d set his own self on fire, sitting in the patience of motor oil, gasoline, or would he strike down monsters?

Which one is _really_ braver? Craig should smell like campfires either way. Liebeslied, sickeningly timeless violins touched by a sandpaper rough voice. 

If Tweek makes a good bet, his heart beats ten times faster just _looking_ at Craig. Tweek finds his eyelids closing, yawning as he thinks about something from the past that’s always rotted on his mind. 

“What if Miss Susie never went to, to h-heaven?” Tweek whispers, urgently, even though it’s not an answer he wants to know, and it’s not a question he completely understands. Craig snorts sleepily, and rubs his eyes. That doesn’t do much to keep him awake. 

“Why? You looking for her?”

“Yeah.”

“She lives in grade school music rooms. By the piano,” Craig says, voice rumbling. “Go to sleep, Tweek.”

“Yeah,” Tweek says, numbly. “Yeah, I can’t s-sleep. Give me something.”

“No way I’m giving you more alcohol. You’re too chatty.” 

“N-no, no, not that. Give me, uh, s-say something to me.” 

“Like what?” Craig groans, trying to hold back a yawn. “Can’t you sleep yet? Don’t you ever get tired?”

“I d-dunno. Wh-what were you r-reading the other day?”

“When?” Craig asks, confused. 

“Uh, wh-when, when you were were with Token. I mean, I saw you by the park. I w-wasn’t following or s-some shit. I just saw y-you.”

“It was about cockroaches.” Craig says, seemingly unfazed, maybe even a little amused, by Tweek’s fumbling.

“Oh.” Tweek says, relieved. He can’t believe he’s relieved that the answer to his question is _cockroaches_. 

“You should’ve said hello.”

“I stutter on m-my greetings.”

“Yeah, and I’m not always responsive, apparently. Everyone’s got baggage, dude.”

“Wh-what about them?”

“Who? Token?”

“Cockroaches.”

“Really? You really wanna know?” Tweek nods vigorously in response. Craig perks up slightly. “Well, cockroaches have communities. They’re not so different from us,” Craig says, biting his lip. “They have social herds, and they make decisions for the greater good of the community. They don’t like to be alone,” Craig says, smiling slightly, that weird dazed look in his eyes he gets when he thinks about bugs, about families that get along. “The article was kinda old, though.” Craig faces Tweek again, looking up from the floor with those pretty green eyes, darkened and shadowed, and Tweek’s got an impatient impulse. He doesn’t think he can pawn it off on the whiskey ghosted Sal told him where to find. _Make a splash, kid, heal._ The common _I’m sorry_ is what Sal meant to say, but he didn’t know how, and Tweek doesn’t really blame him. Tweek’s candle flickered blue and bluer, all the way to a buried old bottle, and maybe he did drink it up. Tweek, for the life of him, for all the memories inside him, can’t find the one where he drank alone. “Go to _sleep_.” Craig demands.

“Make a splash,” Tweek mumbles to himself. Craig raises a tired eyebrow, before yawning back on the floor. Tweek bites his lip. “I just wanna t-try something.” Craig tries to stop his eyes from closing again, looks ready to roll on his side. Tweek leans over the bed. 

If Tweek has ever had a good bet in front of him, this is it. It’s patient, awkward as fuck, sprawled out somewhere on the floor, with pretty green eyes that wake up dirt, turn nightmares into silver dreams. 

Tweek exhales sharply.

“D-dude,” Tweek mumbles, rasping. “I’m j-just gonna try something, okay?” Tweek repeats, mostly to reassure himself. 

“Four in the morning, Tweek. It’s _four in the morning_.” Craig complains.

“I know. I h-have a watch,” Tweek shifts, sits on the floor cross-legged by Craig’s makeshift bed. “I just wanna try something, man.” 

“Do you have to turn on the light?” Tweek thinks about this. Craig’s eyelids grow heavy, and they feel like they’re sinking to the bottom of the sea. He turns on his side. 

“Not r-really.” Tweek says, finally. 

“‘Kay, fine. You do that, buddy, you try your thing. I’m gonna go back to dream---” _Pleasant things_ , dreaming pleasant things, but Tweek has already grabbed Craig’s face in his hands. His wrist is shaking a lot against Craig’s cheek, but he’s a determined, steely-eyed bastard. Craig barely has time to open his eyes, to see only a blurred out, darkened version of Tweek’s unblinking stone ones. Craig doesn’t smell like whiskey. He shifts only slightly under Tweek’s filthy hands. “Fuck me,” Craig blurts, lowly. Tweek narrows his eyes as he feels Craig’s face throw fire on his hands. Tweek doesn’t laugh, but he could find himself doing that. “I mean, not that, just, _shit_ , Tweek,” Craig breathes hollowly, and Tweek can feel the rumble on his wrist by his scar. “The fuck are you doing?” The rails light up below Craig’s window, and the cargo train passes. 

“The train,” Tweek mumbles excitedly, leaning over too close. He looks into Craig’s face expectantly. He still smells like whisky. “Quick, dude, open your eyes wider.” The light from below is catching a shadow, sparking part of Craig’s eye, making it belt _all_ different shades of jade and emerald, too. Tweek pulls off the ratty old blue hat until Craig’s hair looks wild, dark and amber backlit. 

“Why?” Craig chokes out, and this has gotta be worth it, this has gotta be the right bet because Craig is staring at him in such a weird sunrise kinda way, and Tweek’s heart is knocking at his sternum like it’s got somebody to meet.

“Y-you have pretty colors, you gotta know that.”

“Have you seen sunset moths?” Craig blurts. 

“No.” Tweek shakes his head, thumb resting on Craig’s cheekbone.

“Uh, they have colors, too, I mean. Yeah. I’m sorry, what?” Craig chokes out and Tweek runs a finger shakily over his eyes.

“Your eyes are s-so fucking green, th-they, they’re like this river,” Tweek begins. “This r-river where we used to, to run in, um, in th-the summer. Y-you know, with Token and Clyde?”

“We saved crawdads.” Craig mumbles. 

“Y-yeah!” Tweek smiles. “Y-your eyes are like th-that, they’re like the bottom of that r-river in the south sun. Green river.” Craig lays so still that Tweek’s near sure he’s somehow _broken_ Craig, that maybe Craig’s gone off and died on him, and Tweek might believe that if Craig’s eyes weren’t shifting slowly, and his face wasn’t growing redder. Craig flustered is the funniest fucking thing Tweek’s seen. “Tell m-me something gross about sunrise moths.”

“Sunset moths.” Craig corrects, with a light cough. 

“T-tell me something gross about them.”

“There’s nothing gross about them. They get their colors from optical interference. They don’t have any pigment in their wings.” The train has passed, the jade is out of sight, but Tweek can still find his way. His pinky curls in Craig’s hair. Craig feels stone faced like the angel statue. 

“Oh,” Tweek mutters, not sure where to put his hands, not sure what to do now. “Could you, uh, so would you stay awake a few more minutes?” 

“Fuck off, Tweek,” Craig says, with only a little animosity. “Go to sleep, don’t do this.”

“Th-thought, thought you liked me.” Tweek says, frowning. 

“Yeah, doesn’t mean you’re not a dick. Seriously,” Craig says, swallowing. Tweek glances up through unfocused eyes. He hiccups. Craig sighs. “You don’t know what you’re doing, man, so just,” Craig closes his eyes. “Just go to sleep.” 

“Hey, cricket,” Tweek mumbles, thumbing the scar on his eyebrow. Craig furrows them under the touch, but Tweek doesn’t stop. “Y-you really buy that? Haven't I told you what you, wh-what I,” Tweek frowns, the little patience he’s got left wearing thin. “You gotta know b-by now. You’re so smart.” 

“Know _what_?” Craig asks lowly, exasperated. It’s getting harder to breathe, and Tweek doesn’t really blame his respiratory system for giving out first. It’s had a lot of damage, it’s had to inhale, exhale, speed through the days, and it never stops, never ends even in sulfur. 

“I’ll replace y-your matches. Tell me the right k-kind, and I’ll,” Tweek frowns. “I’ll bring them to you, from the moon, and back.” Craig remains quiet. The wind stirs leaves outside, and if Tweek wasn’t holding Craig’s face, he’d feel alone.

“They said strike anywhere.” Craig answers, after a few minutes.

“You broke them all in half. Six, six of th-them, man.”

“That’s an overstatement. It only took me four tries.”

“ _Six_.” Tweek argues.

“No.”

“Y-yeah huh, once on the box, three times on the tree. Once on a rock. And th-then,” Tweek looks over at Craig, eyes his mouth. “Once on y-your teeth.” 

“That one _did_ work.”

“Yeah,” Tweek blinks away something that’s filling up like a balloon in his stomach. “H-how’d you do that?”

“Dry teeth.” 

“I’ll e-even fly them up to you,” Tweek says. He adjusts himself, awkwardly lets go of Craig even though he really doesn’t want to. “Okay, Spaceman?”

“Ground control’s supposed to stay on the ground.” Craig reminds, slowly, eyes still shut. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah. I didn’t l-like that rule.” Tweek agrees, tilting his head to the side with his wild eyes scanning Craig’s face. Something hitches onto that look. 

“It’s in the title. You agreed to it.” Craig mutters, much softer.

“I’m terrible at f-following the rules.” 

“Eight years was too long.” Craig says, so quietly that Tweek's barely sure he heard it.

“This,” Tweek sighs. “This is not a goodbye, alright? It’s not gonna be because I _h-hate_ goodbyes, o-okay?” Craig says nothing, and Tweek wonders if he’s asleep, in the stillness of dawn. It doesn’t matter. Tweek needs to speak, so he continues. “A-and, and I won’t wait, I won’t say it if you won’t,” Tweek promises to a near silent house, feeling near empty, if it wasn’t for Craig’s patterned breathing. “It’s just, it’s just time that I w-won’t be seeing you. It’s not forever,” Tweek squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I _really_ h-hope it's not forever." 

But nothing’s forever, Craig knows, as he falls asleep to someone that he’s sure will be gone when the sun grows up. Tweek is talking so lowly, so wide awake, and ready to fly away. It’s a sour, strange noise by Craig’s window, in the middle of nightfall’s glow, awaiting dawn. _Nothing’s forever_ , Craig knows when he looks in his mirror, sees a scar, and feels a ghosted memory of a lost baseball game. 

Craig’s good at losing things, but wild at dreaming, so he slips into a coma of memories. He’s spinning baseballs in dirt, lifting rocks to find families of ants, and winding Jacob’s ladder over his pinkies, hungry for something the sky candies above. Craig dreams of water too cold for swimming. He dreams of Tweek ankle deep, pneumonia on his breath, ghosts in his head, and in this place of an autumn Craig knows is cold, his wrist is healing. In a place where the first freeze leaves curled up dead bees, his hand is holding onto a frayed rope. Jacob’s ladder is beat, barely reaches, and it’s a numb month. 

“Hey, remember October?” Tweek asks blankly, as Craig’s already even breathing has grown low and predictable. “Y-you know,” Tweek sighs shakily. “I w-would show you the c-center of the universe,” To help, Tweek would take his bug boy to a place that didn’t rain constantly, to a place where snow numbed, and he’d show Craig all the benefits of hiding, of walking out, of _leaving,_ if he could just get Craig to leave. “It’s all, s’all p-purple neon gold,” Tweek’s voice lives in a whisper. “It smells like g-goldenrods. Sulfur, too,” Tweek mumbles, sour look on his face. “I, I th-thought it would be okay. My dad used to talk to me more,” Tweek says. Craig doesn’t move. “But I’m n-not the worst, am I?” Tweek asks, playing with the strings of Craig’s hat. “I’m not, not like th-them,” Tweek eyes his wrist, grows frustrated and closes his eyes, strained shut more than he ever has. “So promise I’m the last.”  

Lit by a tiny glow-in-the-dark spaceship pattern on his worn pajamas, Tweek’s good bet is asleep, and he can’t promise jackshit. This is how things end. Tweek knows that forever means now, and he doesn’t have any bandaids, anything that’d take Tchaikovsky in from his grave. 

The wind blows blue, blue, _blue_ melodies in the distance, and Tweek knows forever is now, forever is _now_ , and he doesn’t make bad bets. Tweek doesn’t lose, not anymore. He doesn’t eat _mars bars_ , for fuck’s sake. 

“It wasn’t even a b-big river. I was just so small,” Tweek doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t know what _to_ do. He doesn’t want to think about being touched there, there, _there_ , _where it burns where coyotes walked him to promise it wouldn’t hurt that it was alright_  but Craig’s asleep, and Craig can’t make any promises when he’s asleep. The risk is just a junkyard beater with a broken fist. “I fucking l-lied,” Tweek chokes out slowly, through stunted breaths. “I should’ve drowned. It was so cold, and, a-and I was so cold.” 

The _tick, tick, tick_ that Tweek follows, the little watch on his wrist melts time away, and he puts his headphones on, lets the noise paint Craig, so, so close to the place he thinks he’s supposed to be. 

“‘Member in third grade, our summer? We found those _assholes_ that poked a-at the bird who couldn’t fly?” Tweek thinks he’s whispering, but he’s unsure how loud he is. “It _was_ back then, m-man,” Tweek says, eyes wide and waiting. Maybe he’s hoping Craig will wake up, wake up his pretty eyes, but he’s sound asleep. “You were so determined. I’d n-never seen you so mad. I’ve never seen you s-so, so mad,” Tweek frowns, finds Craig’s hand and holds onto it. His fingers are limp, they feel almost like Craig’s dead, and he doesn’t wake up. “You didn’t get any p-punches in, but you tried, and I,” Tweek shakily turns over Craig’s hand. “I th-thought you were so brave. I, I d-don’t think I ever could’ve done that.” 

All there is is motor oil rolling in linen fresh lemon, and doo wop rings loudly in Tweek’s ears. It falls over, and Tweek doesn’t know if he even likes this shit, but maybe he does because it’s so close to Craig. But Tweek can’t have any more of this. 

“H-hey, Craig,” Tweek says, with a cracking voice, as doo wop ends, and this woman sings about fading. “I'm gonna miss you,” Tweek lays his arm open, without looking anywhere but up. The scar’s raw again. “To the center of everything,” Tweek begins, eyes awed into the sky out the window. “They say it burns your retinas, bright purple light, and th-that you don’t feel any pain. I'll m-meet you there, someday,” Tweek says, a breezy warmth from his dry lips, right against Craig’s collar bone. In his sleep, Craig’s hand is flat out. Tweek holds it with both of his, index fingers and pinkies making a cocoon, and knotting them together. Craig turns. The day breaks, and he looks too peaceful. “Keep dreaming." Tweek mumbles, leaning forward to press his cherry chapped mouth above the scar the good spirit's got on his eyebrow. Craig stays silently living, silently breathing. Craig's unaware of bad things for these few moments, off discovering new worlds, galaxies, and pleasant things that don't smell like sulfur.

And Tweek's not jealous, only sorry he can't live there with Craig. 

Tweek feels the cassette. He thinks about staying, just long enough to see those electric eyes again, those eyes that pinch every nerve in his body, making unconsciousness seem like a very real possibility. Tweek knows better than that, and he can't stay, he can't stay because February only lasts so long, anyway, and Tweek isn't who he's supposed to be yet.

Craig deserves the best soil. 

Stilled, Craig's dream will end in dugouts, with a spitting bastard, his ghost breather telling him a long story about secret places, hidden gardens, and friends that will meet again.  

Motor oil's rolling in linen fresh lemon, some citrus sparkling laundry soap, so Tweek goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to finish this story. it's been weighing on my mind.
> 
> thanks for everything, you guys, you pushed me to keep writing, and your comments totally mean the world to me. i really, really appreciate all kinds of comments, even harsh criticism. don't worry, i can take rants about problems with the story. it honestly helps me improve my writing. i won't hate you if you hate something in my work, and i'll honestly take your advice to heart. so please please please don't be shy if you really don't like something. 
> 
> but thanks for all the lovely comments i have received, and it really makes my day to get those. :3
> 
> thanks, dudes. <3 
> 
> p.s. sorry for all the errors in this chap it's like 40 pages in my word doc so there was bound to be some things that slipped.


	27. october.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really couldn't see this ending any other way. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLElXC8DYJhC5Je08r9G1C6CnHp4aSSRWN
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who's commented. your words mean so so so much to me. it's indescribable. 
> 
> so long, and thanks for all the fish. <3

_Clink. Clinkclink, clink. Clink._

There’s an old story that goes something like this: 

Rain sounds like harsh whisky. Sleet violently chokes the wrong hands  _always the wrong ones_  until mauve lips mumble, 

 _color me blue_  

There was once a child, but Tweek has grown. He should be ready to leave, he shouldn’t still be thinking about how he could’ve run like pop rocks, _if_ he ran like pop rocks. Would he still feel so defective? Would he still cringe, cave in, and tense up at how brightly neon glows, how alien, and how large shadows are?

Would he still feel that same anxiety, staring at the _best_ month? Would he even allow it in the daylight, because he doesn't think he can be touched there, there, or _there_ , but would it still be electric, would it be enough, would he allow himself to feel like enough, would he feel safe enough, would he _ever_ know that safe was something outside of a walled in pew?

If Tweek  _had_  the chance, he wouldn’t have let anything through the toothless front gap, the major gap in his brain that ran wild, and ran, and ran, and ran because his legs wouldn’t work nothing worked nothing was forged in stone it was all alone it was gone

No one likes the feeling of entrapment. 

No one likes the thought of being engulfed by flames, and Tweek's all out of matches. 

Tweek winds up in this place so few times that he's not sure he ever lived here. He feels the warm summer air, and holds back his bile. It was a lonely place to live, to grow without, and Tweek's not sure he really did grow from here. 

The witch window used to be painted lime, and a few spots on the glass have lasted because the painters were sloppy about crevices. 

Tweek pulls on his headphones, cracking in one ear like they'll leave him soon, too. Tweek clicks the cassette player, stares at the windows of Clyde's house. Lights are on. He knocks, first level bedroom, and watches the it slide open. Clyde's fully awake, in sweats, and he's surprised. 

“Tell me a children’s story where the monsters get away.” Tweek demands, somewhat impatiently, with the headphones blasting tinny songs off his neck. Clyde looks perturbed, but Tweek's lacking company in the comfort of his old home, and he can't let his last memory here be Craig sleeping so innocently in a house that Tweek is sure should be condemned by now.

Tweek has manners, still, and he'll stop by to, to, _shit_ what is he stopping by to do? To _thank_ Clyde? Thank him for the broken bones, for abandoning, for confirming everything he thought was true, for not listening to the cards, for not minding the cards, for never minding the cards and 

No. Tweek is way too unanswered, haunted to give a shit if Clyde even cares about him.

No one else has been there. That's the thought. No one else knows why four and four only add up if you swish the wine back, and how noticeable taint is on blondes, why the stars don’t line up in jupiter’s crook, in the safety of mars, of her arms, pushing daisies over her  _home._

She breathes over the north wind, festers nothing but sweet gingery gasps, and she is fault of summer. 

 _Mars and her angel, mars is not home, nothing’s a home_.  

“What counts as getting away?” Clyde asks, out of some slow-following stupor. He climbs out his window with ease, walking to his porch, sitting on the back stoop.

“No trial, no nothing. No investigations, no confrontations. They just get, they get away. Just like that," Tweek flicks his intense eyes at Clyde. "Tell me one like that.”

“Why do you wanna hear about it?”

“I don’t know.  _Please._ ”

“No way, man, I'm not.”

“You didn’t have any trouble t-telling me, telling me,” Tweek grimaces. “Telling me how f-fucking crazy I am.”

“It’s because you  _are_ crazy," Clyde says, though he doesn't mean it harshly. He's still unsure how to talk around Tweek, and he still shifts uncomfortably when Tweek demands answers to questions he tries to not word. "You just needed a big mirror.”

“They _were_ people.” Tweek states, accepted, and he doesn't send a warning look off to the horizon anymore. Clyde shifts again, the porch rising the morning. 

"No shit," Clyde retorts, helpfully. “Did you really skip the final day with Craig?” Clyde moves the conversation, averts the noise, and he's sure he'll get good at tucking these thoughts away. But it's early. The dew is still up, and Tweek never looks cold.  

“D-do you know there’s a beetle that glows in the dark?" Tweek asks, pensive gaze towards the trees. "How come we never thought of getting Craig that?”

“A what?” Clyde blinks. “Dear god, you’re turning into him.”

"No. Not at all," Tweek says, softly. "I don't like goodbyes."

"Where are you leaving to?" Clyde blurts. 

"I used to live th-there." Tweek mumbles, staring at his old house. "I used to be there, and you used to be h-here."

"Now we're both here." Clyde interrupts.

"Yeah," Tweek nods, looking back at Clyde. The stare's too much for Clyde, and he doesn't look away. For once, he doesn't bat the guilty feeling away. "But it's not the s-same, is it?'

"No," Clyde agrees. "It's not." 

"I don't like goodbyes but," Tweek scrunches his face up, eyes the unfolding sky briefly. "I don't mind saying it to you."

"Gee, thanks." 

"Don't blame me, just," Tweek frowns. "Given everything, I, I think I wanna say goodbye to this. That's all I want," Tweek says. "I have to go," Tweek mumbles. "Don't pry, okay? Never pry." Tweek adds, walking slowly towards the backwoods. 

"What do you mean?"

"Just, don't pry at him, alright? Craig, I mean," Tweek frowns. "Let him talk when he wants, but d-don't,  _Christ_ , don't force anything. Don't ever do that."

"I don't force anyo---"

"It's entrapment, Clyde, n-no one likes that." Tweek cuts off, and Clyde's pissed as hell. He feels like snarking something at Tweek, something witty, but that's never been his area. He thinks about telling Tweek that Craig's not really much of his business, and how does he know anything about  _his_ best friend anyway, but Clyde, deep down, knows none of that is true. Clyde's just been around longer, but it doesn't mean he understands Craig like the back of his hand. 

He doesn't even know what Craig's favorite bug is, and he thinks that's something he should've stowed away, right? It should have been years ago, Clyde should have known what kind of bug, where they lived, and yeah, he should've let Craig talk about it. He should've listened, years ago, instead of waiting disinterested, leaving, interrupting and hey, maybe Craig doesn't have a favorite bug. Maybe all Craig and him  _do_ share is their common knowledge of Star Trek facts, being part of Token's good graces, and beers.

Maybe Clyde has known what it's like to escape, maybe Spock and evil Kirk were just as good escapes as anything, and if that's what he's got with Craig, if that's as close as he gets, is that so awful?

"Want me to say anything to him?" Clyde finally asks, feeling like he's come to a poorly timed revelation. Tweek seems to think about this, but he shakes his head, toeing the cement of the stoop. Clyde wonders, briefly, what Tweek would've spun out of his strange mind to tell Craig. Clyde bets it would be something fragile, something colorful, something that he wouldn't be able to remember right.

"Better get back i-inside. Your d-dad might worry," Tweek nods a gesture to the light on in Clyde's kitchen. Clyde turns to follow Tweek's gesture. He watches his dad, yawning at the coffee maker, trying to get the thing to work. Through the window, the faucet is dripping, trickling at a speed Clyde's never seen when it's supposed to be off. Mom would've fixed it, she would've known what to do. She was so damn good at fixing everything. "Your mom understands. She doesn't know it all, not wh-what you think she does, but she understands," Tweek frowns. "It's the left washer, too." Tweek mumbles as Clyde finds himself unable to tear his gaze from the sink through the window. 

"Huh?" Clyde asks, still staring at the kitchen.

"Left washer. Hot water cracks first. Aisle 8 of Nelson's. Jaws of the wrench go  _roar_ ," Tweek mumbles. "So, sh-she says tape it, like a muzzle, and they don't scratch the faucet. The wrench is under the staircase. Box says," Tweek states stale. "Lamps."

"How do you know that?" Clyde asks, as he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, stuck staring. "Tweek?" There's no answer, and Clyde finally rips his gaze from the faucet to find his childhood friend, a kid he doesn't get, doesn't know now, and someone he should have been nicer to.

Tweek's ghosted. There's no blur of him in the distance, not even a candle smell. He's a flick of the past, ripped off like a bandaid, and the new skin underneath is healing, but it still hurts.

The air's evened, calmer. The faucet has gone back to the simple  _drip drip drip_ , and Clyde shudders at how normal it looks. 

When he gets back inside, when he sits at the oak table, and listens to his father argue with the coffee maker, Clyde wonders where Tweek has gone to. The thought is fleeting, the _pain_ is fleeting against his plain cream colored plate. Burnt whole wheat toast looks very real, crumbling black crumbs, and Clyde doesn't even remember putting that on his plate. Clyde's father asks what he's doing up so early, and Clyde doesn't know anything, so Clyde says just that. For the first time, Clyde just admits that he _doesn't_ know why he's doing it, what he's doing, he doesn't know, and isn't that a relief? His father simply tells him he could fix the damn coffee maker, and it'd be a start to knowing something. It comes off as a plead. Clyde is surprised to find himself cracking an honest smile, and he rations it's better than eating his burnt toast.

So Clyde puts his thoughts to rest for a damn second, and attempts to fix something he doesn't even think is broken. 

* * *

In this dawn, while the county is asleep, they murmur. The cassette tape always rewinds back to the same timestamp. It hums noisily, like a small bug, and it’s never graceful in the way he walks. In the way he sings along, it’s out of tune, it’s loud, and it’s worded wrong. 

Tweek, for the little life in him, never has felt brightness in the dawn. He looks at his palm, and wonders if fate maybe mixes things up sometimes. 

~~Aren’t we all so quiet.~~

The tape spits. Tweek taps it, ejects the music, and switches it out for a new tape. He taps play, and listens until it sounds the voice he wishes he could handle to be nearer. 

[ _Did you know that,_ ] There’s his cough rustling fabric, and it's all a little tinny, but it's there, it's _there_ , and it's almost like bug boy is next to him. [ _Sorry. Ah, well, it’s loud here tonight. Hold on._ ] 

Tweek knows home. Home is slamming the window, wearing a blue sweatshirt even though it’s summer. Tweek imagines that sweatshirt, Craig’s spine underneath, touching the light of the train below, as he crawls through peeling gray paint. _Click click click,_ as he walks, content, in the stubborn summer. 

_Click click click._

[ _There. Okay, Tweek._ ] Craig’s louder, smoother. [ _Wish you were out here with me, man. The train’s going below. You hear it?_ ] Cracked chuckle. Tweek winds the tape back, listening for the hum of the train, and stays for the hymn of Craig’s voice. [ _Wish you were out here with me, man. The train’s going below. You hear it?_ ] No, Tweek didn’t hear it. Craig is too distracting. [ _I bet you rewound this thing._ ] How did he know? [ _It just went over the bend. Well._ I’m _not going to listen back. S’too weird to hear myself talk. I don’t care what you say. It’s my fucking voice.]_

 _[This is just for you,]_ Don’t sigh like that. _[It’s weird that I can miss you, and you’re not even gone yet. Well, I guess you are now. When you listen to this, who knows where you’ll be?_ ] Don’t stop talking so long. Don’t sit there. You have something to say. [ _Sorry. I don’t know what to talk about._ ] 

~~Tell us about home again.~~

Home wafts summer pine, rich soil, it sleets in sheets that cling to young bodies. Home hemorrhages citrus, and sounds husky. Home’s got electric evergreen eyes. 

[ _Did you know,_ ] Home wallows husky, electric, and it’s sour sweet awake like citrus. [ _Mars_ _is releasing methane? It’s an old study but,_ ] go easy go easy [ _But methane, Tweek. Remember what methane means? Come on, Bio wasn’t too rough. I know you got it in there. Methane means..._ ] 

Life. Life. _Life._ Methane means life. Tweek feels the steel tracks underneath his toes, and they’re not hot. They could be, soon, though. He ditched his shoes in a river, for a fox, and left a sharp hunk of crusted bread for the ducks. 

[ _Life. Life on some level, biological, geological. Microbial. Some level, life exudes methane. See? Now you know._ ] 

Know? What _does_ Tweek even know anymore? A bunch of trivial facts? That if he puts his hand close to the fire, it _will_ burn like a pancake on a griddle, like a body in a crematory? 

[ _It’s true, Tweek. It means there’s hope that the planet is alive. Cool, right? And since you’re not here to tell me to fuck off,_ ] Don’t laugh like that, a laugh isn’t supposed to sound so sad. [ _I’ll go in depth. The Martian atmosphere destroys methane so fast, that’s why it’s exciting, Tweek. I mean,_ _in northern mid-summer, methane gets released there at a rate that’s so fucking close to the massive hydrocarbon seep at Coal Oil Point in the Santa Barbara channel._ ]

[ _The Santa Barbara channel is home to the largest petroleum seep, in case you didn’t know. Fun fact, there’s this bug there that just,_ ] of course there’s a bug there why else would you know [ _Feeds off of the crude oil. It’s actually the only species of bug known to do that. Helaeomyia petrolei, think the real name is. Yeah, ‘cause it’s the petroleum fly. They eat the other dead bugs that get trapped there, though, but it’s neat to think they’ve evolved so much that they thrive off of toxicity, isn’t it?_ ]

[ _But, yeah, my point is that mars destroys methane but we keep seeing it. Know what that means? Means something on there is something producing it. It’s an ongoing process. Life, Tweek,_ life on mars _. I believe the phrase you’re looking for is:_ ] shit fuck shit [‘ _That’s damn neato, Craig, that’s really impressive, wow. Life on Mars? Can you imagine!’ Or something along those lines. Oh, speaking of music, here._ ]

Home is a whistle -- no, wait _, it’s a ballooned, gussied up train_ , with clovers to bloom in the worst of winters. Tweek licks his lips because _clovers_ can bloom in the worst of winters, in the worst of storms. With direct tones that break the thin ice until silence rings no more.

Home is a song that sounds like _this_ , husky whispering the words along, trained to keep quiet. Trained to be ashamed, but if it could just get a _little_ louder. 

~~If we went mute.~~

[ _Song was good shit, right?_ ] Don’t be so splintered. _[Fuck, man, I don’t know what to talk about. I never talk this much._ ]

[ _But, I guess this is almost like those tin-can telephones we used to speak through. Empty soup cans. ‘member? Except, I can’t hear you now,_ ] Don’t sigh like that. [ _I guess I couldn’t hear you too well back then either.]_

[ _It was back then, wasn’t it?_ ] Don’t give me silence, don’t do that, don’t leave.

Home is a nest of cotton candy tufts, pink when not white, deep blue _when_ it’s artificial, _no mars bars_. Home swarms with lepidopteras eyeballing the sun like some long lost relative. 

[ _I hope you find something that will make you live life again, like we used to. Like when we were kids._ ]

Until it rings no more. Until ice silences no more. Until ice pauses no more, until Tweek can’t feel breath anymore. 

[ _I’ll look from here._ ] 

Home is a place to be loved, and it’s a place to lose so Tweek will not be going home. He doesn’t make cheap bets, he doesn’t back up his bad hand _the stupid shaking wrist_ like it’s something better than it is. His bluff is shitty. 

He’s not his father, anyway. He won’t bet like his father. He has his mother's grip.

[ _I’ll try to keep up with you from here. Let’s keep our skies the same one, okay? Don’t cross over. Don’t disconnect me._ ]

Tweek is not going home to summer, to squirm in the sun under a breezy jade gaze. He will walk, talk, sleep and find. Cassette Craig hums so Tweek doesn’t need a map.

 ~~Haven’t we walked mars to his crook.~~  

[ _You want to meditate or something?_ ] He moves like crinkling paper. [ _Here. The past doesn’t have any right to get you like it does._ ]

[ _So sit, goddammit, sit for once, and listen to me. Hey, here’s my chorus: you’re not here to tell me to fuck off, so you’re going to have to trust my voice. Can you do that?_ ]

[ _I knew you once. Where are you now?_ ] 

High into the rain, deep into the snow, unlit by the moon.

[ _What’s it feel like?_ ]

Blessings in rivers that blink --- like an ulcer, it twists up like an ulcer.

[ _Are you outside?_ ]

Soaking up the sun before her left leaves them behind, yeah. Yeah, this is what air feels like. 

[ _Tell yourself how you’re breathing._ ] High into the rain, like a stupid kite that can't catch the wind. [ _Pretend it's a game, maybe. You like puzzles, don't you? But there aren't many chances out there, so I hope you’re safe._ ]

~~We were yesterdays.~~

[ _When you breathe, I want you to feel it in your lungs. You gotta be aware of how you are. Who you are. What you’re feeling. Let yourself relax, okay? In your shoulders. Untie the knot between your eyebrows. Close your eyes, dude._ ]

[ _And don’t fall in love_ ,] just keep breathing, keep on moving.[ _It fucking sucks._ ] 

In the browbeating dawn, Tweek walks barefoot across burning steel tracks. Knowledge leads to freedom, at least, it's _supposed_ to. If that rings true, Tweek must not know enough yet, because he still feels like a caged birdie with sugar-stuck wings.

In his bones, all Tweek knows is that October eventually goes home, and honeybees dance before the first freeze curls their bodies. 

* * *

These are the things Craig loves:

_Brown beetles, green fireflies, old melodies, cherry picked trees, moonlit nights, and how the orange mars stains a barefoot honey, tints wide high cheekbones._

To go in cycles, cycles overturned, and speak in overtures that always end. To cheat, gamble on frames that don't support. To leave houses unfinished, but open-ended with enough gaps to imagine how to grow. To make fools fall in love, and wait for all the things that leave. 

Craig never knew how to grow, and he never liked endings.

To be born in fall, when everything dies, imprinted, and permanent as skin can be under the mount of venus. Above, sulfur runs cool across the plain of mars.

_Green trees, firefly skies, faulty brown beetles, and a barefoot, cherry chapped honey finding mars. Hair that glows unnatural seeping under train lights, and tricks God in a day, looking like a saint by cold moonlight._

Hours will pass, buses will fly by, and Craig will retreat to tying his laces together, praying for rain. Craig will sleep through paved gravel, and liquor-wet teeth. No more baseball bat dreams. No more endings, no more consequences, no more thin-rising smoke. Craig will turn a stone until the ants crawl from underneath, hollow cold blue.

Craig won't feel much in the bright morning. Just an absence, and a void that glows in space, in a place that has been buried with the color orange, loved by neon purple in a jar, by a swingset that shrieks. Craig knew a friend, once, and alone, he will close his eyes. Craig will remember cassette tapes that _click clink click_ , under a bandaid-clad hand, and he'll remember certain skies like a birthplace. Craig will remember the look, and voice that croaked with it,  _i don't wanna be a caged bird anymore._

There will always be a lullaby in a church, but Craig will tune into the sound of rain.

The ginger seeping sunlight will be still. He will work through the graveyard shifts it takes to dig the past a hole. To bury it right, with his left heel out, and the good hand in soil. 

Eight years, down, down, down.

_Click, click. Clink._

Craig never liked endings, and he used to be wild at imagining aliens in October, a home lonesome off a derailed train. Ground control was brave, loud, too, and he was color. Soon, he'll only be a crackling song pumped through half broken headphones, over too soon, and fast in the past.  

_Chirped breath, bumbling heartbeat, speedy mind and fast talking, zig-zagging cherry chapped lips._

Barefoot with dirt clinging to scraped raw knees in the summer, Craig taps into a winter warmed by citronella candles. Craig will remember how fast buses fly by, and he'll retreat to tying his shoelaces together, slinging them over his shoulder. Craig will remember the loud look, warm steel smudged blue by wild pupils. 

Moths, they don’t all have the same fate to be burnt out by a candlewick. Among smoldering charcoal, Craig will ~~hope~~   _know_ everything returns. Tired bodies crave mother’s soil. 

Somewhere out there, under auburn stars and rejected tire swings, there’s a cheap cassette tape with Craig’s voice exhaling, rumbling and raining.

[ _Come back to me someday._ ] It splinters by dew, in a lonesome waking blue. [ _Come back to me when it gets cold._ ]


End file.
